


Hypnerotomachia

by Troubled_Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A lot of Walking, A lot of emotional talking, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Annoyed John, Emotional Baggage, Fluff, I'm not really sure, John-centric, M/M, Secretive Sherlock, Secretly Emotional Sherlock, Secrets, Sherlock Being Sherlock, There's a little blood, Walking, a little bit, only a little, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troubled_Soul/pseuds/Troubled_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson wakes up one day to a world he's never seen before. A eerily quiet place where the grassy land never seems to end and cerulean skies which go on for miles. There's no one else there, no signs of civilisation to be seen; he's isolated from any form of society to this place, wherever it is. He's alone, left with nothing but the clothes on his back and his own thoughts for God-knows-how-long. Lost, confused and distraught, all John wants is answers. Ones he knows he has no chances of getting.</p><p>But, as with every situation: everything has an exception, and for John, that exception happens to be Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dèpaysement (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> You know when you're up late one night thinking about fan fiction when an idea pops into your head and you want to take it somewhere. I blame a lot of the road trips I've been on for the impeccability of the landscape within the story. It was based off the countrysides we have here. They're so quiet and serene... It's almost haunting because there's just trees and grass and mountains and rivers and lakes for miles. Well, at least here at the bottom of the world (never been to the countryside anywhere else)
> 
> So, hope you enjoy this one, I've certainly enjoyed writing the little amount of it I've managed. A chapter of 'Science & Faith' should be up soon... Just got my computer back (THANK GOD), I'm just checking up on everything, seeing what's been prodded and poked at by the technicians, you know.
> 
> The title, 'Hypnerotomachia', is Greek from _hýpnos_ , ‘sleep’; _éros_ , ‘love’; and _máchē_ , ‘fight’ 
> 
> All the titles from the chapters are from other-wordly.tumblr.com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dèpaysement_ (n.)  
>  When someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one; the feeling that comes from not being in one’s home country, the feeling of being a foreigner, an immigrant

Soft murmurs linger in John's ears as his mind races to keep up with his other senses. Wisps of ashen blonde hair caress his forehead whenever they pick up the faint breeze, somewhat coaxing him to open his eyes. Sunlight pours into his foggy mind, illuminating his vision with pale rays of light. Blearily, he blinks into the bright glare as he regains his sight. He has to bring a hand up to shield his face from the radiance of the day. As he looks away from the sun, harsh white morphs to startling cerulean blue. Clear of clouds and seemingly endless, nothing like any sky they'd ever see in London. It's too bright, too clear, it’s beautiful. He's not used to it.

Rolling on to his side, the shades of blue merge into lush greens. The area around him looked blurred and unfocused, colours melting together in a mixture of colours that strangely resemble the colour of his duvet. He doesn’t recall ever falling asleep, much less coming here. Can’t recognise it as anywhere he knows either. As he looks ahead of him blankly, he notices that his entire body hurts; waves of pain surge through his head, his chest, his limbs. Even the smallest movements evoke a deep aching in his bones. He curls in on himself, not really thinking it would help but it seems right to do. The pain is centrifugal, beginning in his torso and radiating out to the tips of his fingers and toes, as if it were trying to escape his body. He stretches his arms out in front of him, letting it ripple through his muscles. Maybe it’s a cramp?

His skin feels tender and raw, tingling with pain even though it hasn't broken; a rush of coldness washes through him, shivering that runs deep within his veins. Questions make themselves known, buzzing around the back of his skull and not really helping with the pounding already there. Did something happen? How did he get here? Where even was he? He somewhat doesn't have to be told that there's a large gap in his memory; there was something that happened before he got here but after he left his house to meet Mike at a nearby cafe. Perhaps it's a dream?

John struggles to pull himself from the clingy grasp of deep grey lethargy, trying to gain ahold of consciousness. His mind swirls like being stirred like a mixing pot, muddled and confused. Control, security, awareness; he needs to orientate himself. He starts with trying to figure out where he is, because that’s as good a start as any. His vision is still swimming, and the silence rings loudly in his ears, so he tries to use his touch to maybe get some answers. Until he can get his eyesight sorted out anyway. He doesn’t like the sense of cluelessness, but he guesses he won’t have to cope with it too long.

Grass... He's lying on grass; the long, thin blades delicately dance against his denim covered legs and his fingers clench it in some hope to grasp reality. Cautiously, he balances his weight on his arms; they feel weak, almost collapsing, and his head spins at sitting up. He waits for the dizziness to pass before attempting to do anything else.

Tiredly, he hauls himself to his feet with wobbly movement, limbs jerking out awkwardly akin to a new born foal trying to stand for the first time. His legs feel worse than his arms, screaming in protest at the sudden weight, John manages to remain standing though. He feels light-headed, but he can see clearer now. The meadow stretches as far as the eye can see, but there's a smudge of white in the distance.

It's a person, John's sleep-hazed mind can make out, and they're walking closer, running even. The person stops a few metres in front of him, and John can now make out it's a male.

Ebony curls sweep across his forehead, wild, but they still seem to look impeccable. A halo of white wraps around his head from the intense light of the sun. His eyes are narrowed, calculating as if he can't tell if John was real or not. The scrutinising stare almost reminds him of that of a tiger watching its prey. He's wearing dark jeans and a white shirt that's too bright to look at in direct sunlight. And he vaguely realises that it's the exact same as what he's wearing.

The new person raises his arm hesitantly, eyes full of curiosity and awe. He waves.

John waves back.


	2. Selcouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Selcouth_ (adj.)  
>  Unfamiliar, rare, strange, and yet fascinating; wondrously unusual, curious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm sorry that I haven't been updating this but I'm fine-tuning it really well. Well, attempting to, anyway... Hope you guys enjoy

He's a peculiar character. Seemingly mysterious and enigmatic with a resounding bitter note that you know he tries to hide. From what is a completely different story. Dark hair, pale eyes and even paler skin. He looks like a supermodel, or one of those Greek statues; John almost laughs at the fact that he reminds him of a Twilight vampire. Despite the fact he doesn't sparkle in the sun. Actually... John kind of worries he's going to get sunburnt if he stays here for too long. 

"Let's move somewhere out of the sun." John says quietly, and the other man nods before walking past him.

John follows awkwardly. He hasn't said a word, not even an utter since he approached him. It's slightly unnerving, but he's probably the only person who has any idea of where they are. So John doesn't let his fear get in the way of the possible knowledge. The other man is elegant and graceful, despite his height and lanky limbs, as he walks ahead of John. Determination and clarity in his long strides, John struggles to keep up with him. 

His head is still a bit muggy; he can tell his focus isn't as good as it could be. Wind ruffles the grass and the sound of their marching seems to be the only noise in the entire area, which is only disrupting the rhythm the wind is making through it. It's almost as if he's still asleep, as if his conscience isn't fully with him. There's something in front of them, he can't quite see as the sun incapacitates his sight, but they're heading towards it. He wonders how the man isn’t flinching at it like he is, but that could be just because he woke up not long ago. Soon the sunlight is only small dapples across the grass and the heat is gone from his skin. His vision blurs when he looks at the patches of golden light across the green for too long, and John vaguely wonders if this is what it’s like to have epilepsy. He feels his legs giving way on his as they finally reach a small patch of trees which appears to be the entrance a forest. Instead of landing on the ground with a harsh thud, John feels hands under his arms. He's lowered back, leant against the trunk of a tree, and he's just able to open his eyes to cast another look at the other man without the glare of his shirt.

It shouldn't really be a surprise to find him looking back; the other man probably has the same amount of curiosity about John as John has for him. His pale blue (or are they green?) eyes analysing him with the intensity of a camera. He sits cross-legged, back straight, his hands steepled under his chin almost as it he's meditating. Despite the pose, he can tell that he carries himself in a majestic sort of way. Posh, even... Perhaps he comes from a wealthy family? John shies away, intimidated by the piercing scrutiny, but he supposes it's good that they can see eye to eye. He should ask something, he should thank him, for starters. But he doesn’t quite know what to say. Luckily, he doesn't have to think of anything. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"  

His voice is deep and rich, smooth and rough. A baritone. Melted chocolate and caramel running over gravel. It's a shock from the silence which had been growing between them but John can’t help but notice how perfectly it matches his face and a shiver runs down his spine at each syllable pronounced. He blames the phantom pain. It makes John forget the question for a moment, before he realises what he just asked and blinks in confusion. 

"... Afghanistan... Sorry, how did you know that...?"

"Didn't know, I saw," he tells him like he’s meant to know. After seeing John's expression, he rolls his eyes and elaborates. "Tanned face, but no tan above the wrists. You've been overseas, but not sunbathing," the man points out, even if the sleeves of his shirt are long. "Your hair's cut short, rests below the hairline but far above your eyebrows. And the way you stand, even when weakened... Standard military. So, why would've you gone overseas on a military venture- Afghanistan or Iraq...?"

"... Wow… That was amazing..." John breathes out in astonishment.

He blinks in shock and confusion, like John didn't say the right thing. 

"... Really...?"

"... Yes, of course it was."

The man looks away with a furrowed brow, almost deep in thought.

"... That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John chuckles and he notices the other man huffs in amusement as well. After composing himself, he holds out a hand, starting to feel better already. His head's clearer now the sun isn't everywhere and he seems to have more of a hold on his senses, his mind. It makes him more comfortable, even if he knows nothing else about his situation.

"John Watson." 

The man takes his hand, shaking once before letting go and placing it under his chin with the other again. 

"Sherlock Holmes."

So that's who he is. The name sounds foreign shaped from John's mouth, but not at all unnatural, as if the syllables were made to roll off his tongue. It’s unusual, to say the least. But it suits him. 

He's slightly comforting in a strange way.

"... Are you still in pain?" Sherlock asks curiously, eyes narrowing at his curled up frame. 

John looks at him with a dazed expression. Because, he is still aching. Everywhere. It had dulled down now, so it wasn't as noticeable as when he woke up but... If he thought about it, it became really annoying. He flexes his arms again to see if it helps. It doesn't. Should he tell him? Maybe Sherlock knows what it is, seeming it looks like it isn't a cramp as he initially thought. He's a doctor though; he feels as if he should know what this is by himself.

"Yes..." John murmurs in reply, drawing his arms back towards him. 

Sherlock looks over him again, examining his face, body, behaviour. "Army doctor..."

"... How did you-"

"Facial expression; you feel as if you should know what's happening but this is something you haven't encountered before," Sherlock explains, it kind of feels like he's being a lot more patient than he actually is. Like he would start yelling at him any moment now. "You think it's a cramp, you were stretching your arms out to try rid it. It's not a cramp."

He stands up, observing the surroundings before tugging something out of his pockets. It's a small piece of plastic, which pulls apart to expose a circle of glass in the middle. A magnifying glass of some sort? Sherlock fiddles with it in his hands absentmindedly, and that’s how he’s able to see the small lens; it must be something he does when he's bored... Judging by the look on his face. John stares at his hands, stared at his fingers. He thinks about how they seem really long, and shakes his head confusedly at the thought. That’s not normal.

"You've been out there for a while... The pain will pass," he tells him vaguely looking into the forest. "But try get used to it..."

"Get used to it?" John frowns up at him.

"It comes back."  

With that, he begins to head off into the trees, his determined strides continuing along the ground. His figure slowly begins to get smaller, and he's definitely not going to stop anytime soon. John feels a rush of fear flood over him and he hurriedly hauls himself to his feet, even if it makes his head light-headed again. He can't let him go! First off, John doesn't know anything, and he probably does. Secondly, it might be dangerous out here and John is in no state to defend himself, and third... He just really doesn't want to be alone at the moment. He dashes after the other man, using the trees to support himself. It's not exactly an easy terrain, the leaves quickly thicken and the gnarled roots of trees making themselves known. The foliage becomes dense and the grass is riddled with patches of dirt. He'd forgot about his limp, it makes him stumble, and it makes it a lot harder to catch up with Sherlock, long legs and all. He walks fast, too. In comparison, he probably looks like a lame foal. 

"Wait, Mr Holmes! Where are you going!?"

John manages to grasp on to his sleeve before another spell of faintness comes over him. He feels his knees buckling, and Sherlock immediately  turns to keep him upright again. He's lifted from under his arms, not enough to pull him from the ground, but enough to keep him on his feet. John’s head falls against his chest, breath harsh and uneven compared to Sherlock's controlled inhales and exhales. The thudding of his heart pounds in his head. He finds it hard to breathe, inhales and exhales rough with a wheeze which he knows he shouldn’t and never has, had. Hands grip at the taller man's shoulders and he tries and gains his vision and body back from this sudden exhaustion. He stays there, and only God knows why Sherlock remains a pillar for him to lean on until he gets his bearings back. John pulls away when he feels okay to, weak, but able. Sherlock keeps his hands on his waist, warm and reassuring against him. He doesn't look surprised, not even slightly, as if he expected John to chase after him. 

"Somewhere," he finally replies, quiet and firm just like his grip on him. "And just 'Sherlock' is fine."

"Somewhere...?" John repeats confusedly, flopping back into Sherlock again. He’s suddenly become so tired… Again.

"Yes, seeming there's no particular destinations I am heading to," Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. "I can't really stay still, you see... It's much too boring. So I find the only solution is to keep moving."

"... Let me... Come with... You..." John pants quietly, still tired with the recent exertion. 

Sherlock stares down at him with something akin to wonder. But furrows his brow and scratches the back of his neck. He shakes his head, not in disapproval but uncertainty. John almost wants to start begging. Maybe he knows where there are other people in this place... But it doesn't look like there any civilisation for miles.

"I am not one that another would deem as good company, John," Sherlock seemingly warns him, and John finds himself liking the way he says his name. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, sometimes I won't stop talking. I'm arrogant, rash, do things on my own accord, regardless of what anyone else thinks-"

"I don't... Care..." John shakes his head. He's relieved that he does not want to let John accompany him because of any other reasons. "I'm not exactly an angel either... Temperamental issues, nightmares... I don't really sleep much because of that... I guess I'm a bit of an insomniac."

"As am I," Sherlock hums thoughtfully, before nodding to his leg. "Psychosomatic limp." 

"... What?"

"You had to use the trees to support you as you walked, yet when you stand you don't appear to favour your right leg... As if you've forgotten about it. That means it's psychosomatic to some degree," he says factually, pocketing the magnifying glass. "You were invalided not long ago. Shot in the shoulder... Left... I believe."

"That was a lucky guess..." John rolls his eyes, the faintness fading from his vision. 

"I believe not, no," Sherlock smirks knowingly. "You flinched away when I held you from under your left arm, meaning it hurt in some way."

John laughs in disbelief and shakes his head up at the taller man. He's gotten his breath back now, but the tiredness seeps into his limbs easily. At this rate, he won't be able to keep up with Sherlock, but he sure as hell will try if it means someone to keep him somewhat sane around here. As long as he doesn't lose sight of him, he supposes. John doesn't think he could cope by himself.

He remembers being alone in the wards of the makeshift hospital in Afghanistan, not as a doctor, but a patient. It was one of the worst feelings ever, unable to do anything but lie there as helpless as they were, but watch as his fellow comrades were brought in every night, battered, bruised, broken. Blood ran and they died. And every day, the rest of them left him alone as they went on to the battlefield to fight and John imagined he could hear the screams of every soldier who fell. He wouldn’t feel that helplessness again, he wouldn’t be left alone to do nothing again. 

"Let me come with you... Please Mr Hol-... Sherlock..." John urges softly, stuttering in his nervousness. 

Sherlock stays silent for a moment; John waits in anticipation while he formulates a reply. He's scared that he'll refuse the offer, leave him here alone with this raging pain running through him. Completely clueless, that's what he is. He has absolutely no knowledge of anything. Where he is, how he got here, why he's here. Answers, he wants answers... Maybe Sherlock could help him get some? Yet again, when have answers ever been easy to get? 

"... You need sleep..." Sherlock eventually says, words spoken under his breath as another bout of fatigue run through John's veins. Perhaps emphasising the rightness of the point.

He feels his legs collapse beneath him and he grabs at Sherlock again, who catches him in turn. It's quick and powerful; he doesn't know why this keeps happening to him. This aching tiredness makes him feel weak and it's not something John can say he's completely used to. He's never ever been so exhausted that he's actually collapsed. Close to, being in the army and such, but never quite. John feels himself being lowered back down to the ground, every one of his senses dulling. He can't see Sherlock's face anymore and his hands are only a feather of a touch. 

"No, no, no..." John pleads deliriously, reaching up to cling to his shirt as he releases him. "Please don't... Please don't..."

"Don't worry," Sherlock reassures, removing his hands when John's finally lying amongst the grass. It envelops him like a spider's web which he fights. Because he absolutely doesn't want to be alone, lost and scared in a world where there appears to be no one. "I'll be here when you wake, John."

Sherlock's words feel empty, as if he's just saying them so he'll stop bothering him. It does nothing to soothe John of his fears and neither it should, because he isn't trying. Why should he? In his desperation, he cries out again, hands up and grappling at thin air. Somehow, he manages to grab Sherlock’s sleeve again and weakly tries to pull him back in. Sherlock complies with his tugging, but continues to remove John’s hands every time he grasps at him, repeatedly telling him that it’s alright and he won’t leave. But John can’t believe him when he’s trying to move away. The will to not be alone fuels his floppy movements, makes him able to stay conscious, if only just. The tiredness finally takes over after a while, Sherlock having freed himself of John’s hands for the last time before his eyes begin to cloud over with black, creeping in from the corners and spreading like mist. His arms fall lax at his sides and Sherlock stands again, his shadow towering over him. 

The last thing John sees is him walking away. And he wants to cry out, telling Sherlock to stay beside him and never leave.


	3. Agowilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Agowilt_ (n.)  
>  A suddenly sickening and/or unnecessary fear

He stayed. 

And he’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up, Sherlock seated opposite him. There’s blood splattered across his face, dripping down his neck. Eyes closed and skin pale; he looks like he could be asleep were it not for the crimson adorning his features. The deep red paints him with lifelessness, a stark contrast from his skin and shirt. It certainly startles any sleepiness right out of him. He's scrabbling over to him on his knees seconds later, shaking the other man desperately. Doctor instincts kick in immediately, rolling him on to his side and checking for a pulse. He can't find one.        

"Sherlock!" he says to the unmoving man in front of him. "Sherlock, wake up!"

But then he notices that there's red running down his arms, too. Jerking away from Sherlock like he is a hot iron, he stares wide-eyed at his shaking hands. It seeps from scrapes covering his palms, skin raw and stinging. Suddenly, his body begins to perceive the pain. Perhaps it was the adrenaline from seeing Sherlock which hid it before. There wasn't any blood on him yesterday. Is this a nightmare? But it hurts too much, the aches too real to be a nightmare. It hurts more than being shot in Afghanistan. John falls back into the ground, curling in on himself again. He screams in agony as his skin splits into abrasions and lacerations. The blood pouring into his eyes, his lungs, his mouth. Beneath him, the grass remains clean but John can feel it oozing out of him; from the gashes on his stomach, the grazes on his head. Eyes closing in pain, he holds himself, wet and sticky and cold. He cries, tears merging with blood on his face. Salt into salt. 

But then Sherlock's there, a reassuring hand on his waist. There's words coming out of his mouth but John can't make any sense of them. Blood fills his ears so he sounds like he's underwater, and he's being turned on to his back. He stares blankly into the trees, beams of light streaming through the leaves. And Sherlock's face hovering above him, eyes flitting over him with that analytical gaze of his. Hands run over his shoulders, his hair, his thigh. He's avoiding anywhere that might hurt too much. Is he trying to calm him? Soothe him? John feels his touch, but it does nothing to draw him out. Then Sherlock's letting go, arms falling to his sides as John writhes in pain. He cries out at him, to him.

_Why did you let go?_ John thinks brokenly. _Why did you stop trying?_

"I can't help you, John," he states firmly, voice faint and muffled. "You need to stop crying. Breathe."

So John tries, mouth opening. He chokes on a mixture of his own blood and broken sobs. It gurgles in his throat and pain explodes like fireworks in his chest, sparks burning down the nerves in his limbs. He reaches for Sherlock's arm, slippery fingers skating over solid muscle. It feels comforting to a point, so he keeps his hold. Sherlock seems to think otherwise.

"... I told you, nothing I do will help," Sherlock tells him again, shaking his head. "You're panicking, you have to calm down. You need to breathe." 

He wants to say that he isn’t wanting Sherlock to help him, he just wants to hold his arm to keep him grounded. But he can’t. So again, he draws air into his lungs weakly. Another wet cough, another choked gasp. The more he does it, the easier it becomes and the less he notices the thick liquid clogging his windpipe. He has a vice-grip on Sherlock's arm, probably causing bruises but the other man doesn't seem to mind. His vision slowly becomes less red, just black, around the edges and that fades too. His eyes widen, and he exhales roughly as he feels the blood disappearing, skin closing up. Erasing any evidence that it had ever been broken. Once the wounds have sealed, the pain is back to that annoying, dull ache. The sight of the sun peeking through the leaves is tranquil, beautiful. His hand leaves Sherlock's arm, once covered in blood but now just clammy. Sweat. It almost feels like waking up from a nightmare.

“You’re okay now,” Sherlock murmurs to him, comfortingly, for once. 

“What about you…?” John breathes back hoarsely.

“I’m fine, too,” Sherlock replies, running his hand across his face. “Look, no blood. Nothing."

The red streaks that were there had vanished, as if he were never hurt. His eyes are bright and shiny, glistening with the light from above. He’s alive, breathing, not dying and covered in blood. John brings his own hands up to check, just in case it’s a trick of the light and the blood is still there, hidden from his view. Sherlock’s skin is smooth. Not unrealistically so, there’s some texture to it. Small, unnoticeable bumps and dimples. It’s warm to the touch and the bones are all in place when John runs his fingers over them. He’s grateful when he feels the skin is dry and unmarred.

"We won't be able to travel as far as fast with you like this," Sherlock announces, glancing out of the trees. John finds it strange how the forest is so thin. "Once you're locked in it'll become easier."

"... 'Locked in'...?" John repeats as he sits up. "What do you mean 'locked in'?" 

Sherlock visibly freezes up, and shakes his head, dismissing his question completely. John slowly rises to his feet, and he finds that he isn't as tired nor faint. While on the whole, he isn't that much better, he's thankful. It means he can keep up with Sherlock a lot easier. But the phrase has John confused, and suspicious. Sherlock knows something he doesn't and isn't telling him. It's annoys him greatly. 

"Nothing," he says, beginning to walk off after seeing John is fine. "It was stupid of me to mention anything. Forget I said it."

"... Hey!" John dashes to catch up with him, limp still ailing him. "What does it mean though?"

"Nothing important."

"If it didn't mean anything important, you'd be able to tell me."

"Well, it has nothing to do with where we are, neither how you got here," Sherlock chides in irritation, making his way over all the tree roots and shrubs. The end of the forest is near, and John is surprised at how far they moved in such little time. "So I don't see how it could be important to you at the current moment."

John awkwardly climbs over a particularly big log, cursing his leg while looking over at him unsurely. 

"... Do you know where we are...?"

Sherlock stops at the edge of the forest, the sun still as bright as ever shining through the gaps in the branches above them. The trees here are much less, and it creates a small arch which leads off into some more grass, that John can see. He runs to catch up, stopping just in front of the other man. He's thinking, contemplating how to answer John's question, and John knows it. Why Sherlock has to be so damn careful about what he says is a mystery to him, but he'd rather much like it if it stopped. 

"I moved us in the middle of the night, that's why the forest seemed thinner," Sherlock looks out the opening with half-closed eyes, face expressionless. "Keep up."

His answer is evasive, but John doesn’t push it. How far Sherlock moved them while he slept vaguely crosses his mind before he shakes his head clear of the thought. It must've been a fair way, the forest was thick, deep... Then Sherlock's gone, having disappeared through the clearing and John follows, shielding his eyes from the change in light. So they slept through the night then. When his vision finally adjusts, he can see that it isn't just another grassy plain. The ground dips sharply into what looks large, wide land cove. A waterfall comes from somewhere, trickling into a river which led to a lake somewhere to the far right. Directly across from them led into a gap in the hills. That was probably where they were headed. Trees form in groups, scattered all over the place and there are a few natural rock formations which jut out from places. It's huge, John thinks, the expanse of this place. He feels like he's in a Lord of the Rings movie or something. 

"This'll take a while to cross," Sherlock informs him as he begins to walk down a path going down the steep slope in front of them. "But we might stay a little longer... There might be something interesting here..."

He's practically out of John's sight, far down the path, when he finally comes to and scurries after. Staying close to the hillside, he settles his gaze on Sherlock's back. Maybe if he stares long enough, he'll get uncomfortable and would tell him something. Like interrogation.

Sadly, it doesn't appear to be working. Sherlock's words justify that.

"Whatever you're trying to do, it's not doing anything to help you make any point."

John glares at him petulantly. "Why do you have to be so careful?"

"About what?"

"What you say."

"... I don't."

"Apparently, you do."

"Why are you following me again?"

"Because I don't know where to go."

"And so you must follow me?"

"Well, you see. People are like sheep. Sheep follow other sheep, and people follow other people."

"Oh, the irony."

"... What...?"

"Nothing," John can practically feel the roll of his eyes in his voice as he turns down a curve in the track. "It just reminded me of something."

He half knows that he won't get an answer if he pries, so he gives up before he even tries. The rustling of the grass and trees in the far distance fills the silence where their talking does not, not completely uncomfortable, but not welcoming. It stays until they finally reach the bottom of the hill, which didn't take them that long to reach. Twenty, thirty minutes max. At least, it doesn't feel like long. If only John had a watch, or some way of telling the time... That way he could keep track of how long they've been here.

Or just the time. He couldn't really care less.

The grass here is longer, up to his knees rather than just his shins. He trips up on it regularly, feeling a lot more uncomfortable than he’s used to. Sherlock moves effortlessly, hands shoved in his pockets as he trudges his way across the land ahead of them. His head moves around a lot, observing the mounds of rock and clumps of trees amongst the cove. John remembers he told him he couldn't stay in one place too long, he got bored or something. Of what, John couldn't really say. But it seems like anyone could, being alone and all in this vast world of nature. There might be something interesting here for Sherlock to look at with his magnifying glass. On that note, John thinks to himself, what is Sherlock? Is he a scientist of some sort? Or a collector? Maybe he just likes looking at things.

Well, they should take a look around, at the least.

From this perspective, it looks much more intimidating. Everything seems so much bigger now that they're looking up at it. John's never really been talk to start with, so he feels even more dwarfed than usual. Even still, the land is untouched; It reminds him of the rugged landscapes of Kandahar. The ones where the dunes are undisturbed by the solid steps of soldiers' march, deep orange sands unmarred by the showers of shrapnel and bullets. Both places hold the same beauty, peaceful in a way them seem haunting. The whistling of the breeze sends shudders through him, his stomach feeling hollow. He gazes up at the craggy hillsides with a somewhat nostalgic feeling blooming in his chest. It’s bound to be as beautiful as Afghanistan, in its own special way. Wherever they are, it's somewhere that he'd like to explore, if only a little.

"... Will we stay?" John cautiously asks, a good few metres behind Sherlock. He must've been too busy sightseeing, and goes on the assumption that Sherlock's not one to stay still for very long.

"I need to get close enough to analyse something before deciding upon that." Sherlock calls back, not even bothering to look back at him.

John doesn't really expect it to begin with, so he leaves it. Instead of trying to ask anything, he starts to look around as well. If Sherlock is just going to be looking at things close up, he might as well find a way to kill time too. On the left side, the cove curves steeply up, multiple dark outcrops jutting out of the grass making their own little passages. While it could deem as something interesting to do, it seems like too much effort to go all that way to explore them. The river is on the right side of the cove, just beyond a small patch of trees. Eyes trailing down the length of the waterway, John spots a large rock. It's far from where they are now, closer to the gaps in the hills but... Oh that sounds like a good idea...

"Sherlock?" John runs, wobbling slightly on his feet as he gets in front of the taller man. 

He raises an eyebrow at him suddenly blocking his path, but stops. That's a surprise, John was just expecting him to push past him.

"Yes, John?"

Pointing towards the big and slightly jagged boulder, he asks. "How long do you think it'll take me to get over there?"

Sherlock looks past him, narrowing his eyes at the rock. He then cranes his neck, staring up at the blue sky, careful to keep his eyes away from the sun. His face shifts from thought to thought, expressed through the subtle movements of his features. His hands play with the magnifying glass, twisting it around and opening its cover to reveal the sliver of glass. John wonders if he’d be any good at a Rubiks cube, twisting and turning the rows of colours in a methodical algorithms to get them in the right order. He can almost imagine it, though he doubts it would actually be something which Sherlock would bother to learn. Blinking to rid his head of the thoughts, John keeps his expectant gaze on him until he sighs and blinks down at John blankly.

"Not too long."

"Really?" John deadpans at the reply. "All that thinking for that?"

"Well, that's the truth, more or less," Sherlock shrugs in reply, keeping his answers vague. John wants to whinge and whine until he gets a specific answer, but knows that no matter how hard he tries, he won’t. "It'll take you less time if you run the whole way. Maybe you'll be there before next sundown... Seeing the time now..."

John isn't really listening to him anymore, and barges past to begin sprinting his way towards the craggy outcrop. His limp makes it slightly difficult, but if he runs fast enough he can ignore it. It feels great, despite everything that’s happened in the past two days. The lack of knowledge and the phantom pains. Wind rushing through his hair and the sun on his back, it feels like he could be running through a park.

"John?" he hears Sherlock calling before the tone becomes confused. "John!"

He begins to hear the shushing of grass being moved as Sherlock runs after him. John laughs, because he knows the other man is probably somewhat annoyed by his actions, but is still chasing him for a reason he cannot place. And he's bound to catch up to him and drag him back to wherever he wants to go, but John can't really bring himself to care. Wherever they are, he's having fun. For the first time he's had in a long while.


	4. Ostranenie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ostranenie_ (n.)  
>  encouraging people to see common things as strange, wild or unfamiliar; defamiliarising what is known in order to know it differently or more deeply

He stands on the craggy boulder, all clothes but his boxers discarded on the ground and skin chilled by the wind. He jumps, free falling for a couple of seconds before he's enveloped by the river. The water cradles him softly as he sinks into it, deep, deep and deeper. John opens his eyes, the world tinted in clear aquamarine as he continues to go down. The rocks at the bottom of the river are like nothing John's ever seen before; large deep grey boulders with delicate threads of iridescent colour running through them. A subtle type of beauty. His feet eventually touch the bottom, cool and smooth, and he pushes himself up. Kicking and kicking, heart pumping and lungs aching in the best way. Finally, he breaches the surface, gasping for air as he ruins the tranquillity of the unmoving plane of the stream. Droplets rain upon him from his own splashes, dancing in his hair. The sun's rays warm his skin, heat wrapping itself around his exposed body. He rubs his eyes, clearing them of any stray water trickling down his forehead from his hair. Treading in the river, he feels calm, at ease. There is nothing but the river, the sun and him. 

"You've been doing this for ages," Sherlock's deep voice draws his gaze towards him. Well, maybe not just him… "I can't see how you can keep doing it over and over again…"

John smiles up at him from his place in the water. He's sitting on the bank, long legs crossed beneath him, watching with inquisitive eyes. Days had passed, the sky changing from blue to indigo to red, orange, yellow, and back again. John doesn't know how long they've stayed exactly, but Sherlock had found it interesting enough to. Unorthodox patterns in the trees' leaves or something he hadn't seen before. While Sherlock had been investigating that, John had spent most of his time in the river, coming out only when exhaustion crept into his mind.

Waking is always an experience, Sherlock tells him that to cope with it, he should sleep through it. John finds that hard, but he supposes that it helps. At least he doesn't wake covered in blood and rattled with unbearable pain anymore. He thinks Sherlock's become bored of whatever he was looking at, because he's now been sitting here for a while, which means they'll be leaving soon. But John wants to keep him entertained, just so he can have a little longer here. He swims towards him, hands clasping at the bank, just shy of Sherlock's leg.

"It's fun," he tells him happily. "You should come in." 

"I would prefer not." Sherlock replies tersely, leaning back on his arms.

John looks up at him petulantly. How has he managed to become even the slightest bit fond of this stubborn idiot? Maybe it's because he's the only other person around. Yes, that must be it. It's not like he chose him. He drops his head, gazing into the clear water below. The sun hits the colours in the rocks, shining back up at him like their beckoning him to come back. To climb upon that rocky peak and jump into the depths of the river again and again and again. He wonders if Sherlock's ever seen them, these rocks. They're very interesting, at least John thinks so. Maybe they're only found under the water. That will gain Sherlock's interest... Hopefully.

"There are some big rocks under here," John points underwater. "They're really amazing... And interesting... Do you think you've seen them?"

"I would not know from your broad description," Sherlock drawls in boredom; however there's a visible spark of curiosity in his eyes. "You do know that 'interesting' is such a subjective word. For something which is 'interesting' for you, may not evoke such an adjective from me."

"They're smooth and big, sort of uneven but I guess that's expected. The river's probably eroded them like that," John continues, ignoring his pessimism. "They have these lines of colour running through them. Like liquid rainbows. Do you think you've seen them before?"

Sherlock pauses, thinking about the elucidation, before shaking his head. "No... Not ones with multicoloured veins, anyway..."

"Then you should come in!" John urges with a grin. "We can look at these, and then we can go somewhere else... Because I know you're getting bored."

More contemplation, weighing up the consequences of John's offer before he begins to untie the laces of his black Converse shoes. John grins ecstatically and pushes himself up on to the bank next to him. Sherlock shuffles away with a glare because John makes puddle where the water drips off him and on to the land. Soon, his shirt and jeans are chucked behind them, landing somewhere near John's and he stands up. Once unrobed, he stretches his arm above him, as if his clothing had restricted him from doing so. John didn't expect him to be so fit. He looks so lithe and lanky under his clothes. But he's toned, the muscles on his stomach, arms and legs all defined, but not overly. His ribs are slightly visible and that’s a bit worrying, but John leaves it because he doesn’t look too unhealthy. Sherlock starts to sit at the bank again but John stops him.

"No, come this way," John shakes his head and points towards the rock formation beside them.

He probably should establish whether Sherlock can actually swim or not but the incredulous face that he gives him doesn't scream fear or panic. So he goes on the assumption that he can. John leads him up the rugged outcrop and to the top, where they both stand staring into the deep blueness of the river. He smiles up at Sherlock, who blinks blankly downwards.

"Shall we?" he asks with a giggle.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the question, but nods. So John takes his hand and together they fling themselves off the rock-face. Together, they fall, weightless as they plummet down. Their hands release once they're well into the water, touching the bottom and John sees Sherlock immediately swimming towards the sides. His hands run over the colour, fingers splayed across the rock. John makes his way towards him. However, can't hold his breath for as long, so he has to propel his way back to the surface, where he splutters violently in the race to the top. He treads for a while, calming his breathing before looking back down at Sherlock. He hasn't come up yet, John wonders how long he can hold his breath. Inhaling deeply, he dives back under and kicks his way towards the other man. From where he is, Sherlock looks ethereal. Spots of sunlight dapple his alabaster skin as well as the patters of the ripples above him. His deep brown curls sway in the current, slow and languid like snakes and his eyes are almost the same colour as the water. His fingers still explore the multicoloured veins in the stone. John tugs on his arm, but Sherlock shakes it off so he forcefully pulls him upwards. They break the surface again, and Sherlock's curls are no longer curls, now flat tresses slicked against his head. 

"I was almost done!" Sherlock snaps petulantly as they float. 

"I was worried," John admits with a sheepish smile. "You just didn't come up for so long and I can hold my breath for a while, but not ages..."

He must see the genuineness in John's eyes, because Sherlock's scowl softens and he sighs. "I was fine."  

John was going to say something, mention that breathing is important (which the other man thinks does not matter) but Sherlock ignores him and his head dips back under the surface. Leaving him to sigh exasperatedly and swim back to shore. He hauls himself out, shaking his hair free of wetness. They were leaving right after this, John assumes, so he pads over to a clear spot and lies himself down. The sun is strong enough for him to dry in a matter of minutes, in which, Sherlock does not emerge from the river. He redresses with slight concern, but the other man appears to be able to hold his breath for a while. He pulls his shoes on, they’re the same as Sherlock’s. Black Converse- he doesn’t even wear Converse. Sherlock doesn’t strike him as the type of person to wear Converse either, but he looks good in them regardless. It just strikes him as a bit weird, the way they’re dressed the exact same. By the time he’s tightened his laces, Sherlock finally bursts out of the water, a triumphant grin on his face. He pulls himself out in one graceful movement, sitting himself on the bank before standing and lying himself down next to John. He finishes tying his laces before he begins to talk to him.

"Was it interesting?" John watches him as he dries.

He's silent for a moment, absorbing the sun's warmth like a plant that’s photosynthesising. Eyes closed and hands flat on the ground. John doesn't know how much time passes, it must've nearer a couple of minutes than a moment. He's probably just focused on getting dry, as if speaking to John will somehow disrupt the process. But then he rolls over on to his stomach, folding his arms under his head.

"Satisfactory," Sherlock hums lazily, although content. Maybe that's the sun talking. "I acquired the information I need."

"I told you so," John chimes smugly, happy that he was right about something where Sherlock was reluctant. "It was worth the time going swimming."

More silence. John wonders if he's fallen asleep. He hasn't.

"Hm," is Sherlock's only response as he gets up, heading towards his pile of articles.

He all but throws his clothes on and manages to make himself look perfect in the process. His shoes are tied with a flourish before he rises back to his full height and starts to walk off with a beckoning finger. John notices that his hair is beginning to curl again, now it's partially dry. It's strange how Sherlock can simply begin moving again, the lack of attachment and lack of exhaustion he has. He supposes the attachment thing could have to do with the fact he gets bored with things easily, but the tiredness thing… Yet again, John's not really tired after that either.

He runs to catch up to him, staying his (now) customary of metres away, never allowing himself to get any closer. It isn't because he doesn't want to walk with him, it's just that Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate it. He likes to think to himself. Then again, he doesn't really seem to appreciate anything. And looking at Sherlock ahead of him makes him feel comfortable, like he actually knows where they're headed, even if he doesn't. A fixed point, something he can understand in this unknown place. That's what Sherlock is for him. He finds some relief from it. Vaguely, he wonders what on earth Sherlock could be looking at in the colours in the rocks for so long. John just thinks they looked cool.

"We're going into that crevice over there," Sherlock tells him, hands now tinkering with something. Probably his magnifying glass. "In the hills."

"Where does that go?" John questions cautiously.

And Sherlock answers: "Never been there before." 

Time passes at whatever rate it does in this place as they travel. John thinks it goes too fast but moves too slow. He can't get any rhythm from it, as if his circadian cycle simply does not exist. As if none of his body’s biological clocks apply. His exhaustion catches him at the strangest moments; sometimes he sleeps through both the days and nights, other times he can get through them without a wink of sleep at all. The tiredness, he feels, never catches Sherlock at all. John's only seen him sleep twice: the first time the day after they met, and once when he'd come back from a small patch of trees and practically collapsed by the rock. John had watched him the whole time, a couple of days at the least. It’s tricky and confusing, John feels as if it's never really fixed. Like there's timezones or something, yet he hardly thinks that they've walked the width of a country. 

They reach the entrance of the crevasse a lot quicker than he anticipated. Not that they were too far from it, but then again, John can never really tell in this place. Sherlock enters with no hesitation, and no thought of how to see despite it appears pitch black inside. John stills at the start, tentatively observing the surroundings. He can see the sun sinking behind the hills in the West. Once he enters the cave, he'll have less of an indication of the time than he already does, which is slightly unnerving. If John stays here too long, he'd lose him, and he doesn't want that. But this cave… It reminds him of Afghanistan, of the legends told by the local people. The ones about dragons and goblins which will eat you on sight. He furrows his brow and drops his eyes to the ground, uncertain. Grass had morphed into dirt as they'd come closer to the entrance, dry and dusty on his shoes. He's not anxious about meeting any dragons or goblins, but more the lack of sight, the loss of location. Where will they be? Where will they end up? Things which are impossible to tell. And yeah, he knows it’s ridiculous, because they don’t even know where they are in the first place, but still… He can’t help but feel uncertain. The next time John looks back up, Sherlock is standing there, leaning against the rock with folded arms.

"You're nervous," he sighs exasperatedly, eyes closing. "If it makes you feel any better, there is nothing to worry about."

"You don't know that," John counters back skeptically. "You said you've never been in here."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his words like he always does. John wishes that he would just be upfront with him, this obscurity leaves him lost and hurt. It doesn’t even seem like the way he'd usually act anyway. Can Sherlock not trust him? They'd been in each others company for ages now, it feels like it anyway, and John hasn't killed him despite how much he sometimes had wanted to. John hates they way he won't tell him things, and he hates the fact that despite that, he still trusts Sherlock. 

"Could be dangerous," he shrugs nonchalantly, so casual it makes John want to scream. 

John stares at his emotionless face incredulously, though Sherlock’s eyes look at him curiously. He’s looking for something, and John thinks he knows what it is. He’s looking for hesitance. Instinctual hesitance. Fight-or-flight, some indicator that John is genuinely scared about going into that cave, because he thinks it’s dangerous. And regretfully, John can't say he is scared, and Sherlock can tell. He can tell what’s been missing from his life and exactly how to remedy it. So he turns on his heel, strolling back into the depths of the unknown as if he were walking down a street. Scrunching up his face, John stares intently into the dark after him. Well, he's done madder things that following a madman into the unknown, such as invading Afghanistan. He sighs in disbelief, shaking his head.

He's a madman, John finally realises, Sherlock's an absolute lunatic. Ready to rush into everything head first, no matter the obstacles or consequences. Ruthlessly wild and reckless like a storm. Sherlock Holmes is a battlefield, raining bullets and guns blazing. Blood, guts and gore, he spreads devastation and hate with his careless audacity.

And John's a soldier ready to fight.

So he runs into the darkness, seeking the war zone which he's always known he's wanted rushing through his veins. 

"Goddammit."


	5. Lítost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lítost_ (n.)  
>  Regret and remorse and repetance; a state of agony and torment; or sorrow said to "be created by the sudden sight of one's own misery"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been inactive for a while. To be honest, I've just been feeling really unmotivated and schoolwork has been picking up. Strangely enough. I am going to begin to try harder with these stories as well as get an education (although, I'd rather just be doing this), so hopefully there will be more updates in the future???
> 
> Apart from that, the revelation!!! Duh duh duh daaaa...!

It's not some much a passage in the hills as it is an underground labyrinth, an interconnected network of tunnels and tracks. Roof high and jagged with stalactites (or is it the other one?) and the floor filled of gaps. It weirdly feels like their in one of those Super Mario Bros games which he saw in the shops the other day. Well, when he wasn't here. Has it only been a few days? No, it's definitely been more… The only thing is: he can't tell how many. That watch would be useful right about now, but then again, how would that help him? John keeps his gaze on the ground, thoughts muddled as he tries to count the days in his head. There were two when he first met Sherlock… Then another three…? No, four… Or was it…? He furrows his brows, the days blending together in his mind. He can't remember… How long have they been in here? 

Maybe it's his lack of sleep. He hasn't been sleeping at all lately. Sherlock seemed to pick up on it too. But he picks up on everything so, did that really mean anything? John frowns to himself. At least he hadn't need to worry about those achy cramps for a while. How many days has it been without sleep, he wonders. If only he knew. Sherlock, as always, hadn't slept since forever. Nothing new really.

Even if his eyes are on the ground, he somehow manages to trip up,  toppling towards the dirt. Then there's arms under his own and he's being hauled back up on to his feet again. He grins sheepishly up at the other man when he finally has his footing, stepping back slightly while he shakes his head.

"You mustn't dwell in your head so much…" Sherlock chides, although it doesn't seem to hold anger as much as it holds amusement.

"You seem to do it all the time," John protests indignantly as he turns back around to begin walking again. "I don't see why I shouldn't be able to."

"It makes you uncharacteristically clumsy," Sherlock points out, a hand tracing the cave wall they're beside. "And I'm not sure that a lack of coordination is a wanted ability."

It's not as dangerous as John had originally thought, but Sherlock is right, it's probably not for the best to keep his head down. Albeit the only real danger is one of them intentionally jumping off one of the cliffs into the depths of the Earth, it's not something John wants to be doing. He nods in resignation and bounds up to catch up with Sherlock, who had made his way through the opening in front of them. 

The opening is not the exit, which he anticipated (he'd learnt never to get his hopes up too high when traveling in this place), but a large chamber with a gaping hole in the middle. Sherlock stopped on the edge, head tilted down. The cliff which they approach dropped into darkness; a bottomless pit, or not. John would much rather not find out. He peers into the black ahead of them, then to Sherlock and finally to the other side. There is another ledge on the other side, a good two, three hundred metres away. In between lies a number small segments of flat rock, almost like platforms. It would be possible to get across, if only they first one. That was way too far for either of them to jump.

"… You wouldn't happen to carry some rope on you…?" John half jokes, voice faltering at the sight of the gorge in front of them. "Maybe we should just turn back…"

"Hm…" Sherlock muses deeply, hands under his chin in their usual thinking position. 

He looks over the part of cliff they're standing on at the moment, measuring it and probably figuring out some amazing manoeuvre that would hit one of those stalactites to make a bridge or whatever. John watches in wonder, because how can Sherlock come up with a solution to everything? How can he know the answer to everything? Do everything? No one can do that.

"I cannot disable a bomb," Sherlock informs him from the entrance, as if in reply to his question. "However, I can get us over this abyss. I just need your cooperation."

"Sure," John says, still perplexed by his abilities to read his mind. Also by the amount of trust he places in this man. "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock looks at him, then behind him to the first slab of rock which John hopes they will get to. He fans his hand to his right, John's left. "Move that way."

John takes a step, waiting for the other man's approval. He waves his hand again, and John keeps moving. Then he starts beckoning him to come closer to him, near the mouth of the cave they entered to get in here. After an impromptu foxtrot by himself, Sherlock's satisfied with where he has him, and starts to position himself according to John. He tries to ask what on earth he's doing, but gets no answer, at least a coherent one anyway. John couldn't make heads or tails out of 'butcher, work, no weapon'. How did that have anything to do with it? Soon, he's out of the cavern, leaving John where he's standing. Confused as ever, he pokes his head out to the left, where Sherlock has disappeared around the corner. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Don't worry about it!" Sherlock shouted back ever so calmly. 

That was meant to calm him down. It did anything but. This was the type of stuff that happened in TV series. That was the type of thing you said in a TV series. Or a book. Yet again, this adventure's beginning to feel rather fictional… John sighs and rolls his eyes. He folds his arms in skepticism as he hears him heading further away. 

"I need you to start running," Sherlock abruptly instructs him. "When I say, of course."

He looks back towards the cave entrance. Sherlock is still not able to be seen. "What? Towards the cliff?!"

"Yes towards the cliff, where else would I want you to go?" Sherlock sounds exasperated. "Does that really need explaining?"

"Um, yes?!" John yells back in panic, beginning to move.

"Don't!"

John steps back into position defeatedly. Why oh why does he trust this man? "Sherlock-"

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course." 

"Then I need you to sprint towards the cliff in front of you."

"… I…" John says hesitantly, pausing to consider this. "… Okay… Now…?"

"Wait…" Sherlock's voice sounds like it's getting closer, fast footsteps pattering across the dirt. "Okay, now!" 

So he listens to the madman of a friend that is his and starts to full-out sprint towards the edge of the cliff with adrenaline beginning to flood his veins, pumping into his bloodstream. He gets closer, and closer still, but he steels himself not to stop because he can hear the harsh panting of Sherlock behind him. He briefly thinks of telling him how insane he is, but John has a slight feeling he already knows. He tells him anyway. And Sherlock breathily laughs in reply.

Suddenly, he's hooked up in Sherlock's arms and he jumps off. They're flying through the air, soaring even. Impossibly so. No human, super-genius or not, cannot accomplish this. John clings to Sherlock, his lifeline, as they travel effortlessly through the air. How can this be happening? It can't be happening! He looks around frantically, air swirling around them in their movements. Then Sherlock's landing, placing John's feet on the ground before his own find the ground. John's legs wobble, and he turns towards the other man hysterically. 

"How did you do that?" he asks, overwrought with confusion. "That's not possible, you couldn't have done that. No one could've done that!"

"I did."

"Of course you did!" John fists his hands in his hair to show his frustration. 

"You can do it too."

He's confused. He's above confused. The world turns upside down, the rules in play suddenly changed and John spins out of control. This isn't how life works, this isn't how the world works. There are laws, rules, provable conservations which are explained by means of science and discovery. Newton's laws of physics, gravity, Einstein's theory of relativity, that's how he knows the world. That's how he's learnt the world to be. But this isn't the world, this is somewhere else. An alternate reality, a hallucination, a bloody video game! This isn't what John knows.

Sherlock gives him a wink, then runs off, bounding eagerly to the edge of the stone their on and launching himself into the air. He all but glided through the air, high and majestic before falling back to the earth. What he had believed was the earth. Momentum keeps him going for a few steps before he turns and faces John from the other platform.

"Come on John!"

John hesitates in the middle of the rock. Can he do that? It's not something he's known himself to be able to do, much less believe himself to be able. He _can't_ do that, that's impossible-

"It's not," Sherlock says to him. "It isn't impossible."

"I can't do that!"

"Here you can."

And John believes him, of course he believes him. And of course he's right, because he's always right. John uses his frustration to fuel him as he sprints towards the edge. He jumps off, and for a moment he thinks he's going to fall into the pit below. But he doesn't, instead he sails across the chasm with ease, landing in a crouch by instinct from the army. His hands fall to the dirt, and it feels dusty smooth against his palms. Real, not real. John can't tell. Bringing himself to his feet, he looks to Sherlock, who's already making his way out of the caves. Now he can see through the other side, this is the exit, and even with that new information, the betrayal runs deep in his bones. There's no trust between them. Not from Sherlock anyway. And John lets himself be fooled, made to dance to Sherlock's tunes, to believe his deceiving words and be wrapped in them until they're all he believes. But not anymore, he won't let himself be controlled by Sherlock any longer because John has a right to know. A right to the knowledge that he holds.

"Where are we anyway?!" John exclaims angrily, distraught with confusion and doubt because he doesn't know what's real and what isn't anymore. "You know something I don't, don't you?! You always have! You've never told me and is it because you don't want me to know? Is it because you hate me or something? I don't know! I don't know a damn thing anymore!"

He's lost and detached from a place he thought he knew. Maybe he's going insane. But the things Sherlock is hiding have made themselves known, this crazy place where there's no one but them and the abandoned lands. There is something important he isn't telling him. It makes him furious because he feels like he's lost control, gone crazy. He hates the feeling of mystery and the fog which blinds himself from the truth. The shroud of mist which Sherlock pulled over his eyes to stop him from seeing. His hair feels real in his hands but the pain tingling under his scalp doesn't. Fake.

"We're never hungry."

Sherlock tells him, and John's eyes open, his head shoots up and Sherlock's face is that of sullenness. 

"We're never hungry, never thirsty, never hot or cold," Sherlock walks towards him as he lists off the facts, voice becoming louder and angrier as he comes closer. "Your hair feels real but the pain at pulling on it doesn't. Subdued, like listening to something underwater. We can't count the days and can stay awake for nights. We're never really tired, and we're never really asleep."

His shadow consumes him, swallowing him in black and shielding him from the light pouring in from the holes in the roof. He's more intimidating this way, John wonders wildly if it's intentional. It probably is, but he's never seen Sherlock so angry, so passionate about anything. Not even his observations he makes here. He's frustrated at this knowledge. The things he knows annoy him to no end, like not being able to do something when you know you can. Like having a tremor when trying to write neat on your handwritten essay. The bitterness runs through him as much as his blood does. Pale turquoise eyes seem to glow with the smoldering looks he's giving him and John cowers.

"The wounds we get when we sleep disappear when we finally come to consciousness here, we walk the land for hours, morning to dusk, we hardly sense the change in time. It's agonizingly slow yet seemingly too fast," Sherlock continues, fury building and building as if it's something tangible, like John could swing a hand through the air and feel it run through his fingers. "We're left alone, in a land where there's no one but us! And at one point, it was just me! We are in the dark, no time, no dates, no nothing! Just this endless cycle of day and night. Day, night, day, night, day night!"

He turns back, a fire in his eyes which John's scared to see. It's all consuming, tearing Sherlock apart from the inside out. This has ruined him since the moment he knew and could do nothing about it. He approaches John again, terrifyingly close. Too close. John can't help but look into his fiery eyes. And can't help but be truly afraid.

"It's because we're being watched, monitored. All the time," Sherlock glowers at him, tone low and desperate. Nothing but a whisper. He's delirious with this knowledge, the curse of awareness having taken it's toll on him. "It's because being fed, tended to every minute, of every day! We're never really tired because we're always asleep, and we never really sleep because that's what we're always doing!" He shakes his head, laughing resentfully as he turns away from John and to the cave around them. It's a haunting sound that echoes all around them. But doesn't. "You can't feel the pain in your scalp because it's not real. And we always wake with blood all over us because that's what got us here in the first place!"

Harsh breaths fill the silence. Sherlock's eyes flit over his face, catching the thoughts and emotions the rush across his features so John doesn't have to say a word. He edges closer. 

"We're not really here John, we're sleeping our days away in sterile white rooms, losing our bodies to muscle atrophy," Sherlock whispers to him, the veins in his neck popping out. He's enraged at John's obliviousness and it pains him, John can see it in his eyes. "We're fighting battles that we don't know if we can win, left to be fed through straws and to piss through tubes for God knows how long!"

Sherlock drags himself away from John. Sees the realization dawning on his face and turns to leave him with the words which had been taunting him forever.

"Comas," Sherlock seethes vehemently.

"We're in fucking comas."


	6. Druxy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Druxy_ (adj.)  
>  Something whole on the outside, but rotten on the inside; of timber, having decay in the heartwood

A coma. 

He's in a coma.

John can't help but freeze, trying to comprehend the situation. The gears in his head slowly begin to spin, making the connections between the points which Sherlock told him. So if he's been in asleep this whole time, what does that make this? Because, it can't be a dream, because he's slept and woken many times in it. So... Are they in an alternate reality or something? He feels the blood drain from his face, his hands trembling. The air he breathes in, his body finally recognises, is not fresh, but filtered, artificially cooled and lacking that smell of leaves and grass. Or dirt. Seeming they're still in the cave. His brain was tricked into thinking those sensations were actually there. 

He rakes his memory for the first day, when he first arrived lying in the middle of nowhere. The corners of his eyes blur to red and grey. It's all flashes, swirls, happening so fast he can't fully register it. He sees people crowded around him, paramedics probably, offenders maybe, before he finally closed his eyes. John blinks hard at the force of the sudden flashbacks, jerking back as if he were hit. He can't tell what's happened to him. Anything could've happened. John shakes his head, tried again. Nothing comes but the pains in his body and the red in his eyes.

"Now you know," Sherlock spits at him, venom laced in his voice as much as his gaze. John jumps at his sudden outburst. "And I shall take my leave. I do not want to be around to witness you uselessly panic. And I certainly won't tolerate you coming to me to do so."

He turns dramatically and begins to walk away, his anger shown in his posture. It takes John a moment to realise he’s walking off and a couple more to recover from the aching feeling across his whole torso and head. John sighs exasperatedly at his ridiculous assumptions, watching him trudged through the grassy plain which the cave exits to. Yeah, okay, he's shaken. It's daunting to find out that he's actually asleep in a hospital bed in London and not actually here. Wherever 'here' is. But he isn't going to go into a full-blown panic attack. He's faced worse, he guesses, the shot to the shoulder left a pretty ugly scar. These would just be more to the collection. And really, what would be the point in panicking when you can't do anything about the situation? John thinks panicking is just how Sherlock thinks that everyone will react. Normal people. But then again, John isn't the most normal himself...

"Wait!" John dashes after him after composing his thoughts in an orderly fashion. "I'm not going to panic!"

The sun shines radiantly as always, John has to stop and wait a moment while his eyes adjust to the light. He wildly thinks that it could be the bright, LED hospital lights. After he can see better, he continues his chase after Sherlock, who is seemingly unaffected by the change in brightness. John runs ahead on him in an attempt to stop him. Pale blue-grey eyes glare down at him for a second before Sherlock sidesteps him and continues on his way. Completely disregarding him and his existence. John groans in frustration and chases after him, forcefully pushing against his chest so he doesn't move anywhere. Now that he thinks about it, it was probably his panicked look that made him walk off. But that's more in fear of being alone. Sherlock looks surprised at this action, if only slightly. At least he made some impression on him.

"Sheesh, just hear me out!" John yells at him in his annoyance. "Look, I think I know how you think I'll react, but you're not always right! You forget I'm a soldier, I'm used to unexpected events. I was shot in the shoulder and woke up in a tent miles from the battle hours later. This is no different...! I think..."

All thought processes inside Sherlock's head seem to seize, and new ones with this data take their places. Yes, John is not as normal as the rest of the human population, and yes, he is a soldier. If he's going to panic, he's going to be doing so on the inside. Hiding the confused turmoil with a soldier's demeanour. Sherlock's face shows no indication of his thoughts or feelings, the usual mask of indifference hiding his blinding bitterness for this place. But, he seems to not be so intent on getting away from him. Which John is glad of. Now Sherlock isn't so persistent on walking, John speaks again.

"I... I can't remember..." John looks up at Sherlock with perplexed eyes, hands still braced against his chest, pushing him back. He's unsure of everything and above all, he just wants to know the truth. Maybe Sherlock can help him with that… But is that something he can figure out…? "I was walking somewhere... A cafe. To meet my friend... Something happened… Maybe I got knocked out… Assaulted… I don’t know..."

Something shifts in Sherlock's eyes, he can't tell what, but there's a small spark of something which moves. He lowers his head towards the ground, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. John can't see his eyes beneath his curls and his mouth is a flat line. His hands clench at Sherlock's shirt, just in case he tries to walk away again. He's trying to make a point.

"I never thought the phrase 'ignorance is a bliss' was valid for anything," Sherlock tells him bitterly. "After being here, it makes a lot more sense."

He keeps his head down, lowers it more so John can't see his mouth. Sherlock's hands come to rest at his sides and John tries to figure out what he's thinking about. Him? This place? Their situation? Sherlock’s always been a mystery to him, for what time he’s known him. John gets annoyed at him for keeping his guard up so damn high all the time. There’s no one else here for him to tell anything to, not that he would if Sherlock actually told him anything, and there were people around. John just wished that Sherlock trusted him. Fully.  

"... I was in the middle of arresting a criminal when he managed to struggle free of my grasp and forced my head against a metal table," Sherlock finally replies as he brought his own hands up to remove John's. His expression is more annoyed than sad. "I wonder if they contained him."

Well this was as good a conversation starter as any.

"... So you work for the police?" John asks curiously, awkwardly pulling his hands towards himself. Sherlock walks off again and John follows, like he always does.

"With them. I would rather die than work under those imbeciles."

"Okay then," John nods slowly, accepting of the fact that pretty much all of humanity is below him. "So where do you live?"

Sherlock pauses before replying. "London."

"Really?"

Another pause.

"Yes."

"So do I," John tells him, it secretly makes him happy. "I work in a clinic."

“Hm," Sherlock hums lazily.

"So we're in comas?"

"Yes."

"Where are we then...?" John furrows his brow.

Sherlock stops for a moment, and John does too. Just because he’s become so accustomed to trailing after him. For a while, they just stand there. He notices that Sherlock is looking at something in the distance, at least, he’s faced that way, so John assumes he sees something. But then he turns back, looking expectantly at John. For what, he’s unsure, so he just stands there, blinking back at Sherlock, bewildered. With a sigh, Sherlock tilts his head ahead of them, towards the horizon, and John looks there, trying to see something before the dark-haired male finally shakes his head and continues walking. John wonders what he was trying to tell him. 

“W-What?” John stammers, somewhat insecure with himself.

“Nothing."

“… Right… So where are we…?"

"... Some... 'Realm' of... Unconsciousness," Sherlock shrugs with a scrunched up face. "I don't know if there's an actual name for it. Haven't really been able to find out... But it's not dreaming. Now we're locked in, we just-"

"What does 'locked in' mean, anyway?" John recalls him using the term when they first met. "You told me I would be 'locked in' some time."

"Your conscience," Sherlock informs him, pointing to his own head. "Your conscience is locked in your body. You're awake but you can't do anything. We still can walk, talk, think; we sleep and wake, there's nothing wrong with us. We just can't actually get out of our heads to do so. That's why we're here," he shoves his hands in his pockets. "When you first came, you had to sleep a lot. Because your body was tired, that's also why the pain was so intense. It was still there, healing. You weren’t awake to indicate pain, so the doctors wouldn’t have given you any painkiller, well, anymore than already administered. After your body finally recovered to a substantial degree, something was stopping you from waking up. Head injury, trauma, I don't know. But you're locked in. You don't know how to get out," Sherlock glares at the land ahead of them. "Neither do I."

"Oh," John blinks. "And the thing about sheep being ironic..."

"We're asleep. Of course I found sheep ironic."

"... Yeah, I understand..." John sighs happily. He's grateful that the barrier between them is broken. Now that John knows the truth, Sherlock's seemed to accept his presence a little more now. "So, how come the 'realm of unconsciousness' is so... Empty...?"

“It’s not really empty when you think about it,” Sherlock gestures to the land around them vaguely. "Plateaus of the mind. They represent peaceful periods of thought such as sleeping or relaxing," he pointed behind them, towards the direction of the cave they'd recently come from. "Caves represent curiosities, going into the unknown and seeing what you find- learning. Differences in the landscape, so places which aren't caves or flat plains, are actions, thoughts," Sherlock thinks for a moment. "Things we know or know how to do. Like in the land cove we found."

"... How does a deep hole in the ground represent what we know?" John says sceptically. 

"Well... When you think about it, and we're putting this in a very abstract way, a deep hole in the ground is like a cave without a roof," Sherlock scrunches up his face. The abstract thing must not really be to his liking. "Think about a mining quarry, once upon a time, that quarry might've been a mountain… It’s strange, I know. But then again, I suppose all humans are a little idiosyncratic in their own way… Must be something about our sentience, or conscience… Probably the latter. My knowledge on psychology does not extend to… Subconscious parameters..."

"... So... It's reading our thoughts?" John answers slowly, still processing the facts. "Reading what we know or are thinking and/or doing, then turns them into this place?

“No. It doesn't just represent what you or I are thinking, doing, have done," Sherlock shakes his head. "This entire landscape represents the human mind. As a whole."

John remains silent. He thinks about it. About Sherlock being here alone before him, walking along the patterns of the human brain as a landscape. Along the bouts of thought and slumber, amongst the unknown. How long has he been here for? He doesn't even know how long he's been here himself. How long has he known? How long has he had to bear with the knowledge of being in a coma? How long has he even been here? John can’t even begin to imagine what it was like to be alone, walking, waiting for something to happen. Then finding out, figuring it out by himself. How did he even do that? John wouldn’t be able to, that’s what he thinks anyway. But it all makes painstakingly obvious sense. The wounds, the sleep patterns, the unreal feeling of him tugging on his own hair. Now he knows, he feels a little dumb about the whole thing. But he feels that way about everything that Sherlock says. He’s so smart, it’s amazing and to think that people thought it was freakish. A piercing gaze sets itself on the side of his face, Sherlock mistakes his quietness for misunderstanding. 

"There's nothing specific here because the place itself isn't specific to anyone," Sherlock rephrases his previous words.

"... Yeah, yeah... I got it," John tells him, voice vague from being lost in his thoughts. "... It must've been hard."

"Hm?" Sherlock sounds surprised. “Hard?"

"Being here," John murmurs. “You know… Alone. Knowing that you were really... Asleep..."

They walk in silence for a moment, Sherlock seems to be thinking over his words. Not in a way that he has to be careful with them, which John is grateful for, but because he's not sure how to say what he wants to. His face twists in deep thought for a few moments as he tries to organise his thoughts into something which would make sense to him.

"Alone is all I've ever had," Sherlock stares ahead blankly. "Alone is what protects me."

_People protect people,_ John thinks.

He says nothing else. And something in John’s chest aches at his words, because he knows that can’t be true. There has to be someone. There _had_ to be someone, if only once long ago. Parents, a lover, a sibling, a friend maybe. But then again, he doesn’t really know anything about Sherlock, just his name, and that he’s stuck here with him, in a coma. Even so… Could he really be telling the truth? John doesn’t think that there could be someone who was truly happy if they were alone. The only one in the world, in their world. When John wasn’t here with him, was Sherlock happy by himself? Walking along a land within his own mind? Did John annoy him then?

And suddenly, John finds himself wanting to be the one there; filling Sherlock’s loneliness and taking its place so he could be the one to protect him. 


	7. Eleutheromania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eleutheromania_ (n.)  
>  An intense and irresistible desire for freedom

"This is impossible."  

John stares at the night sky incredulously. It's beautiful, no doubt, but even if he doesn't know anything about this place, and knows anything right about geography, then the Aurora Borealis shouldn't be anywhere near here. Wherever 'here' is. If he's imagining it, it's probably some place outside of London. Except the days feels too sunny, too bright. He blinks as the vibrant greens, pinks and yellows swirl languidly between the stars and purply-blues of space. He's never seen them before. And he's never realised how beautiful they are. Not that he's ever seen them in real life but if he can see them here... That means he must've seen them in a picture once, at the least.

"Well, yes and no."  

Sherlock stops in the middle of the open field. They'd been walking away from the caves, and like he'd said, time had moved much too fast but way too slow. He'd tried counting his own steps to try measure how far they'd walked, but that had become agonisingly boring and he'd lost count before he got to three hundred. There had been nothing for ages. The sky, the grass, and them. How can this place be so boring? Isn't it where people go when they fall unconscious- and doesn't that lead to dreaming?

"What do you mean by 'yes and no'?" 

John watches as Sherlock's head tilts upwards, eyes gazing into the heavens above while he walks. He can tell he's analysing them, so he's obviously seen them before, here, in their minds. His cerulean eyes drop and his hands play with his shirt hem, noticing how the fabric is clean despite everything he's put it through. Then Sherlock stops walking, standing still for the first time in a very long time. John doesn't realise this at first, so he ends up walking into him. He steps away quickly, but he finds himself wanting to stay in close vicinity with him. Sherlock smells comforting. He smells like tea and honey, like bergamot and lemongrass. It's Sherlock and John supposes that's what makes it so soothing. Because he's always been the one here to ease him. His guide. His fixed point. He resists the urge to bring his hands up to his shirt.

"Oh... I'm sorry..."

"... It's fine..."

"... Right..."

"... But yes and no. In real life, this would be impossible, here it is not."

"... What do you mean?" John questions his reasons sceptically. This whole 'locked-in-his-own-mind' thing doesn't quite work with him. Especially because Sherlock's here. "If we're trapped in our own minds, shouldn't we only be able to see what we believe?" 

“We aren’t trapped in our own minds. You keep thinking that even after all the times I've told you."

The other man turns and his brow knits, lips drawn into a tight line. His dark chocolate curls disappear into the darkness, but John can just make out his features from the dim light of the stars and moon. His eyes almost appear to be glowing, his irises reflecting iridescent images of the galaxy. John has to take time to revel in how pretty he looks, beautifully androgynous. Sharp lines and angles. Geometric planes of silver and marble. The light plays against his face like the glow of a television would late at night. In the dark. Sherlock's eyes flit everywhere, John can never tell where he's looking. What he's looking at. He could be looking at him for all he knows. 

"The realm of the unconscious is one I am only beginning to come to understand," Sherlock answers, somewhat annoyed by the lack of knowledge he has. "It's infinitely big yet seemingly small, ridiculously peaceful yet incredibly busy. It’s boring, dull, mundane, but at the same time it’s beautifully enigmatic, mysterious. It's contradictory and paradoxical and impossible," he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But it's only like that because it's full of hopes, dreams, wishes, fears, doubts and desires- that's what it's built on. And that's why it's impossible. Because humans decide to dream impossible things."

John looks up at the sky again, and when his eyes move back to him, Sherlock is looking right back. 

"So here we are," Sherlock concludes, staring into John's eyes with this unrecognisable look. "Stuck in a realm of the impossible." 

He's not close by any means, it seems respectable. But the distance between them is in no way far, closer than John would be comfortable with his friends. Sherlock seems different for some reason. John breathes in sharply, an aching in his chest. He'd never realised how much he'd craved physical contact since being here. Remembering Sherlock's hands running over his forehead, he breaks their gaze and lowers it to the grass with a shy smile that he doesn't really want Sherlock to see. But then again he can see everything.

John remembers the assuring tangibility of Sherlock's forearm when he had to grasp upon it to keep him grounded when he was writhing in pain. He remembers gripping tightly to his hand when they plummeted into the depths of the river. John has to stop himself from reaching out and grasping out at Sherlock's wrist. Because for all he knows, Sherlock could just be someone he dreamed up. Sherlock could just be some figment of his imagination. 

But John doesn't think that he could ever make up someone so brilliant as Sherlock, someone amazing and exciting and dangerous...

And that's why he hopes he's real. 

"How long have you been here?" John asks softly, seating himself down on the grass.

Sherlock sinks down beside him, cross-legged. "A while."

"... How long?"

"I don't keep track," Sherlock lies down. Rolling on to his side, John lies down beside him. "It's just a repetitive cycle here; day, night, day, night."

He gets it. It's not easy to keep track. And maybe it wouldn't really help. It would just remind him of how long he's been here, and John's pretty sure that's something Sherlock wouldn't want to be constantly reminded of. So he says nothing, content with lying on the grass in their silence. John's nose is a few centimetres away from Sherlock's shoulder, and he breathes in to the smell of him. He wishes to draw closer, but doesn't dare himself to. Instead, he closes his eyes, hands together under his head like a pillow. He keeps his eyes open, reluctant to close them in case he falls asleep.

They lie under a myriad of stars swimming in a cocktail of violets and indigo that make up the night sky. John tries his best to commit this moment to memory, but they’re in a funny place at the moment. John doesn’t know how his mind works when it's like this. Sherlock stares up at the stars, eyes wide and calculating as he speaks again.

"You should go to sleep."

It’s always a daunting thought now, falling asleep and waking up. He feels the same every time he awakens, bursting pain radiating throughout his body in slow, steady waves, much like the ones of the sea when they crash into a cliff. It’s hard to untangle himself from the clingy threads of deep grey lethargy and it’s scary knowing that once he falls asleep again, Sherlock might not be there when he wakes.

"I don't want to," John breathes out, not wanting himself to leave. 

"What you want and what you need are two very different things. Last time was at least five days ago."

"Can you really say anything?"

No remark to that. John caught him out this time. He hasn't seen Sherlock sleeping for a good week and they both know it. 

"We'll talk then."

"Okay."

"Okay." 

John shuffles around, still trying to get comfortable within the grass. He’s not on his bad shoulder, and for that he’s grateful. Getting up to go lie on the other side of Sherlock would just be awkward. They listen to the silence for a while, witnessing it whilst witnessing each other. They don’t talk, John’s too scared to break the quiet and God-knows what’s going on in Sherlock’s head.

“Do you think it’s a good thing you know now?” Sherlock asks him softly.

His head is turned away and John reaches a hand out, hovering just above his shoulder. He doesn’t dare to bring it down, doesn’t let himself touch him. As if he did, he would fade, disappear into a pile of dust and blown away by the wind. So he leaves it, watching his fingers tremble over him. He remembers the way that Sherlock let him run his hands over his face to reassure him he was okay, that first day he woke up. The way that the skin under his fingers pushed and gave to the pressure of him clinically searching for signs of injury. He remembers wondering about this strange, mysterious man; this amazingly, resilient human soul. How he seemed to know everything and how he hid everything he knew. And maybe it’s because it’s the first time John’s ever thought about discovering since he actually discovered, maybe it’s because he’s thinking about it from Sherlock’s perspective. But he realises that Sherlock was trying to isolate him, keep him oblivious. It was his way of trying to protect him. 

“I don’t know,” John whispers back as genuinely as he can. Because he doesn’t.

There’s something between them, almost like a bubble of invisible force pushing them away from each other. It’s foreign and unnatural, and John wants to push at it. He wants to touch him through his impenetrable shields and layers, but his hand falls down in fear of rejection. Sherlock turns to look him in the eyes, and John suddenly registers that yearning for compassion and touch he’s having, isn’t just a generalised thing. 

And, oh God, isn’t that just a revelation? John’s breath hitches in his chest, and he hopes that Sherlock hasn’t heard. How could he have not realised this before? These unrecognisable urges for physical contact, affection, approval from the man- they were all signs, bright flashing lights which for some reason he did not pick up on. Like being colourblind and running all the red lights. Now he can see the colours properly and the damage is done. It’s too late to go back and fix it. Too busy focusing on what was happening in the moment to see what was really happening. Too busy following him everywhere to try and figure out why. Sherlock Holmes didn’t make him fall, he let him down gently. He fell in love with him like doing the waltz, with Sherlock being the lead. He was dipped down slowly.

Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on the sky. They flit over each of the stars, trying to calculating where they are, maybe. Although, from what he’s heard, Sherlock’s astronomy is atrocious. If he doesn’t even know that the Earth travels around the sun, John doubts that he knows the names, much less locations of any of the stars in the sky. He mutters incomprehensible things to himself, and John’s fingers begin to play with the loose fabric of his shirtsleeve. Luckily, he’s too lost in his own thoughts to notice. Even still, John’s nervous. His grip loosens and tightens on the white cloth, tentative and undecided on how to properly address his current situation.

Here he is, in a coma and in love with a man he doesn’t even know is real. How did this happen to him? He fists his hands together in front of his mouth to stop himself from saying anything stupid. He decides to take his chances, shuffling ever so closer to Sherlock’s side. His forehead is pressed into the warmth of his shoulder and his knees brush at his waist. John didn’t think he was that short. He closes his eyes, and thanks whatever doesn’t make Sherlock push him away. John’s hand presses against Sherlock’s arm gently, finding the solidness of it comforting once again. Even if this is only in his mind, Sherlock still feels like he’s real to him.

_Tell me you can feel this too_

"... You know those rocks that you showed me? In the river?" Sherlock mumbles quietly, voice so low he almost doesn't hear it. It comes from out of nowhere, jerks him from his thoughts.

Nevertheless, John nods silently.

"Here."

A hand slips between his own, a sort of ribbed, smooth rectangle placed in his palm. Sherlock's hand feels large against his own, and John opens his eyes right into his. The object is small, three, four centimetres in length. It's cool to the touch even with Sherlock's body warmth. John stares into his eyes and finally sees what that spark, the one he spotted in his eyes so long ago, is.

Sherlock is like ice, cold and permeating. But under that, he is a storm. A violent, rampant hurricane of fire and lightning, of fury and despair. Anger and pain and desperation, hopelessness and helplessness and resentment. Beneath that empty shell of a human being was the most human, human there ever was. John knows that. And he can say he's a machine as much as he wants, but there is _nothing_ in the world that can hide the feelings that shows through the windows of his eyes; his soul. Raw emotions run deep within Sherlock's veins, having seeped through his blood, taken over him for so, so long. Even alone, he taught himself to control it. Told himself that it's bad, and that this would be over soon.

God-knows-how long later and it's still not over for him. 

John's heart breaks for him. Sherlock Holmes and his ardent desperation. For freedom, the hope of one day walking, talking, breathing, living amongst reality once again. To break free of the prison of his own mind. John wonders what Sherlock did, he was told he had a job revolving around the police. Must’ve not been the most mundane lifestyle. But John could never imagine Sherlock having a lifestyle like that, quiet, peaceful, domestic. Those adjectives don’t seem to sit well with the younger man. They maintain eye contact, John sees the galaxy in his eyes.

The broken man who covered himself so well that no one would ever notice him breaking.

_He's icy in a way that is scalding,_ John thinks to himself, in awe of Sherlock's person, _he's burning cold like that star in that Doctor Who episode and..._

"... For some reason, I thought of you."

Closed into a fist by a hand much larger than his own, the object presses into his skin. Sherlock's hand squeezes tight, letting go before he rolls himself over. So he's facing away from him. And John doesn't bring it out to look at it, he doesn't ask what it is. He's too busy grinning at Sherlock's back, his own fingers curled around whatever the other man gave him. 

He puts it in his pocket.

_And he's beautiful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Doctor Who reference... Hope you don't mind~


	8. Induratise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Induratise_ (v.)  
>  To make ones heart hardened or resistant to someone's pleas or advances, or to the idea of love

John wakes up to the sun in his eyes, facing Sherlock. The latter still peaceful in his slumber. Pain rolls through his muscles, and he stretches his limbs even if he knows it’ll do nothing to help. At least there’s no blood today, he thinks as he curls up next to him. He can’t help but notice how the brown-haired man still looks cold and harsh, even when he’s asleep like this. When his piercing eyes are shielded from the world. There’s knowledge behind those eyes, multitudes of it. John wills away the desire to run his hands over his face. He’d always been quite a physical person. Human contact is sometimes what keeps him sane. Clenching his fists, he pulls his arms close to his body, and takes a deep breath. 

“Can you tell me…?” John whispers to him, almost lost to the breeze and the shush of the grass. “Do you know…?"

Sherlock can’t hear him, he’s asleep. It’s a good thing, too, the man hasn’t slept for ages. He probably shouldn’t be speaking to him like this anyway, risk waking him up from his well needed rest. They may been asleep on the outside world, but even the conscience needs a break sometimes. Just because you can’t physically wake up, doesn’t mean you aren’t awake. John sighs gently to himself, shaking his head while internally telling himself that it was a ridiculous thing to be asking Sherlock. He closes his eyes. Maybe he can get back to sleep again.

“You were in a car crash."

John’s eyes immediately snap back open, wide and shocked. Sherlock gazes at him with half closed eyes, still drowsy as he’s drawn from sleep. There’s a bit of blood running down his face, but John has become so accustomed to it that he hardly reacts anymore. He tries to wipe it away anyway, but his fingers swipe right through it.

So he knows. Of course he knows, he knows everything. How long? Was this something that Sherlock was hiding from him too? John holds his breath in anticipation, a silent gesture to say he’s waiting for more. If he’s going to say something that will give him closure, if he’s finally going to tell him something upfront, John’s not going to deny him.

Sherlock’s hands hesitantly come up, stopping and starting until they rest on his jaw. Fingers press along the ridges and dips of his face, examining it with his analytical eyes of his. John feels as if he’s being pulled apart, as if Sherlock can see into his mind and read all the twitches in the muscle, all the electrical signals being sent to and from his brain, all the thoughts, dreams and wishes, desires. Everything. He feels like he’s been exposed, no mental or physical barrier to hide behind now. 

"You were on a street, the car hit you at full speed. Out of nowhere," Sherlock murmurs to him, quiet and close like it's a secret for only them to hear. "Your head hit the asphalt," his left thumb brushes over his temple. "Here... Then you rolled a couple... Three times, before coming to a stop in the middle of the road."

As he grows more conscious, Sherlock’s eyes adjust and show more scrutiny. His hands explore the dips and edges of his body, pressing to feel the positioning of the muscles, bone, the veins and the arteries where his blood flows. His gaze becomes less hazy and more analytical, peeling more and more of John’s layers away.  

"... You suffered abrasions to your stomach from the rolling, lacerations from the glass," Sherlock whispers, head tilting the slightest. "Massive internal bleeding. A punctured lung."

John shivers as Sherlock presses his hand harder against his ribcage, deducing where his ribs had to crack in order to tear into his lung tissue. How can he tell, he wonders. How is it that Sherlock can tell what happened to him? He’s a doctor! Shouldn’t he be able to see too…?

“The paramedics arrived at least ten minutes after the incident… You still had to be induced so the swelling in your brain could go down without aggravation,” Sherlock said, hands still wondering John’s torso. His eyes come up to meet John’s. "You never woke up."

And it's then, when their eyes meet for the umpteenth time, that John knows his breath has audibly hitched. His face has gone red and his hand quiver in nervousness rather than post-traumatic stress. Something that John wildly finds the time to appreciate. They stay like that, and it’s the longest they ever have. John finds he can’t breathe and he’s stuck like that. Paralysed, unable to do anything. Unsure about what to do. The thoughts in his head swarm around until he feels like he can’t even hear himself think, nervous, anxious, hopeful, flitting bouts of thrill and fear. One of Sherlock’s hands slips under his waist, the other curling around his back gently. The wind through the grass is no longer able to be heard by him, completely immersed in his thoughts, his emotions, Sherlock.

That force is building between them again, thick and tangible like John could reach out and swipe his hand through it. The only difference between this time and last time is that Sherlock’s walls don’t seem to be built up as high. He feels more open, vulnerable, prepared to take a risk, ready to show thought and emotion. John shuffles along the grass towards him while Sherlock’s arms draw him closer. The hands on his back push him forwards; there’s no way he can move back, even if he wants to. It’s futile to fight. This is going to happen; inexorable. His heart is hammering in his chest, uneven and unnatural, his stomach is full of butterflies, thumping around the walls of his gut like they’re trying to get out. These are feelings he embraces, even if they make him want to sing and vomit at the same time. And he can’t read people in the same way that Sherlock can, but John prays that he feels the same as he does.

Their noses touch, Sherlock’s curls tickle the sides of his face. John can feel the warmth of Sherlock’s breath as he exhales, evenly and rhythmically in ways John can only wish he is. Eye contact is maintained the entire time, this close, John can see all the different colours which make up his eyes. Turquoise, pale jade, ice blue. John is only able to name a few before there’s no space. John braces himself when their lips brush against each other, and he automatically tilts his head to adjust for Sherlock entering his space. His hands creep up to cradle his head, fingers pressing into the lines and dips of his face. The bone structure, the veins, his eyebrows, everything that makes him feel that little bit more real, and not just some image of a thought.

It’s entirely unexpected when the moment isn’t earth-shattering like John thought it was going to be. It’s gentle, calm, but firm and determined. Much like John is finding everything is like with Sherlock. They move together effortlessly. There’s no pressure involved, just them moving against each other. Chaste and sweet, it sort of feels like their teenagers on their first date. John finally closes his eyes, letting himself surrender to this and hopes that Sherlock does too. 

“No…” Sherlock breathes into him. “No…"

Abruptly, he draws back, sitting up and shuffling away from John like he’s a hot iron he just touched. His hand covers his lips, almost in the same way someone does when they’re about to throw up. He’s gone from being in the moment to being repulsed by it in seconds. The movements have John dropping harshly to the ground, from where Sherlock’s arms once held him. It’s so sudden he’s almost winded by it.

“This isn’t meant to happen,” Sherlock tells him firmly, standing up. “This isn’t allowed to happen…"

“Wait, what…?” John replies confusedly, getting on his feet to meet him. “Why…?"

“It just isn’t, John!” Sherlock hisses back at him, as if he’s the one who has faulted. “We shouldn’t-"

“Hey! You were the one who kissed me!” John protests, not wanting to be blamed for something that Sherlock initiated. “Don’t yell at me like it’s my fault!"

“Why didn’t you push me away!?"

“Why would I push you away?! Isn’t it obvious?” John yells angrily, the feelings from before now becoming more sombre. “For someone so smart you are the biggest idiot I know. Sherlock, I feel the same way about you as you do for me! Of course I didn’t push you away!"

“You should have,” Sherlock glares with cold eyes. “You aren’t meant to feel like this for me." 

“Stop blaming me!” John objects indignantly. “Just- ugh… Do you feel the same…?"

“… Yes…"

“Then why?” John spreads his arms in a gesture of irritation. “What’s wrong with us doing what we just did? What’s wrong with me feeling the way I do for you?"

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly, annoyed and frustrated just like the time that he told John where they really were. Lying in separate beds across the city. But just before, curled up against Sherlock, breathing the same air; it felt more real than anything John has ever felt. 

“Get out of your pretty little head, princess,” Sherlock scoffs mockingly, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed.

“… What…?” John recoils back at the insult. The reference isn’t something John has ever heard nor understands.

“I said get back to reality!"

“I am perfectly aware of where we are and what is happening-"

“You aren’t really here, John Watson,” Sherlock growls lowly, creeping closer like a lion stalking its prey. “Do you actually, _actually_ , even realise that? You’re in a coma recuperating from a car crash. You’re mistaking here for an alternative version of life, an alternate reality- but none of this is real! We’re stuck in our heads not another universe! I’m not real, you’re not real! Nothing we’re feeling is real! We’re only here to fill the space, to kill the time!"

“Just because we’re asleep doesn’t mean this isn’t ‘real’,” John frowns, trying to convince Sherlock otherwise. “You said it yourself, we’re in the same place, and we know we’re real. We both know we have lives outside of here-"

“That’s not the point!- Just… If this… Continued, what do you think would happen if we woke up?” Sherlock asks skeptically, behaviour and posture offensive. “What if-"

“We live in the same city, we’ll be able to find each other."

“No, no, no! Stop making all these assumptions, you idiot!” Sherlock shouts in frustration, taking a step towards him. John can almost feel the anger radiating from his body. “No one can tell the future, John Watson, especially not us. You don’t know if we’ll ever wake up, you don’t know if we’ll ever see another place that’s not here!” He puffs out his chest, making himself appear more intimidating. His voice sounds accusing again, something which leaves a sour taste in his mouth. “We could spend the rest of our lives here and not even know it. You don’t know if we’ll even remember this place! You don’t know that we’ll remember anything! You. Know. _Nothing_."

John wishes that he could retaliate that point, but it’s the cold, harsh truth and there is nothing which can be said to object that. He knows nothing, he can’t tell the future. So he just stands there, quivering with rage. Regardless of what is most logical, he wants to say that they will remember each other, they will wake up, they’ll meet each other in the real world. But they’re not points he can reinforce with evidence, facts, things that Sherlock will work with and accept. 

“Well if we’re going to forget this anyway, then what’s the point in arguing?” John throws his hands up. “If this happens and we forget it, we’ll just go on with our lives as if it didn’t happen. Because physically, it didn’t!"

He’s fighting for a chance. Even if he won’t remember this if he wakes up, can’t Sherlock accept what he feels while they’re together?

“We might not remember each other, but we might remember the feelings. We might remember the feeling of being in love with someone we don’t even know. We don’t know what our consciences will decide to keep, is able to keep,” Sherlock tells him bitterly. “I am unwilling to risk the well-being of my subconscious over something that is not even real."

He’s only worrying about himself, John realises. And he fumes at this, anger boils in his veins at the fact that Sherlock is drawing back from him when he feels the same way, when John knows he feels the same way. He’s closing himself off in fear of the future. They glare into each other’s eyes, staring holes into flesh. How could he just do that? Open himself up for the moment and then suddenly shut, locking John out. He let him think that he had done it, gotten past the layers and layers of walls which Sherlock kept himself closed off behind for so long. Sherlock let him think that he had a chance. Then he’d taken it away as soon as he’d given it. Enraged, John pushes against his chest.

“You selfish bastard…!"

Sherlock falls on to the ground, and he would’ve laughed were he not so angry at him. He turns on his heels and begins to run as fast as his feet will allow him, wanting to get as far away from him as possible. There’s nothing stopping him, this isn’t real, he is able to do anything he desires. He’s in a world which allows the impossible, but not the things that could be. But it’s Sherlock. And to be honest, he should’ve known. The man who said that solitude protects him, the man who hides everything from everyone. The hurt from rejection bubbles up from under the fury, making itself known and it hurts a lot more than expected, physically and emotionally. The feelings may not be real and Sherlock himself may even be an illusion, but John’s never felt so passionately in his life. How could this ever not be real? Tears begin to stream down his face, and he has to wipe them as he runs so he can still see. 

Even if he wants to, he doesn’t look back.


	9. Hiraeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hiraeth_ (n.)  
>  A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return; a home that never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

He doesn't stop running for a long time, he's almost back to the caves when he decides to take a break. Only then does he decide to look back. There’s nothing there but the grass and the sky.  Still angry, he turns back and begins to walk, the grass turning to dirt as he gets closer. It hasn't been that long, because he ran the whole way... But then again, when John says it hasn't been that long, he means a day. And that's not really long for him in this world. His whole perception of time is fucked up, if he must be honest. 

Suddenly, he gets really lightheaded. His legs buckle on him and he collapses into the dirt for a moment. They feel like jelly, like he doesn’t know how to walk or his legs have forgotten how to. There’s new noises in his ears, faint, but there. Having gotten used to the silence, he finds they're overwhelming. Frantic beeping, crunching, mumbled sounds. It sounds like their underwater, but even so, he still finds they’re incredibly loud. Covering his eyes and squeezing his eyes shut, he shakes his head. Pain ripples through his limbs, rattling his skull.

_"Dr Watson? Dr Watson, can you hear me...?"_

In shock, John jerks back, shuffling along the ground awkwardly like a fish out of water. But soon after, they fade, leaving him with the silence of this land again. He yells out, saying hello to the emptiness a couple of times before giving up and slumping, Someone was talking to him... Asking him a question... And those noises... They sounded like they were in a building- a hospital, to be more precise.

Wait...

Is he waking up...?

All anger forgotten, he jumps up, bouncing around happily even if his muscles ache. He's going to be leaving here! He's going to wake up! Finally! After so long... It's only a matter of waiting now. He smiles to himself excitedly, looking down at his feet. But then... 

Sherlock.

Freezing up, all his energy goes into thinking about his situation with Sherlock. Well, the last time he saw him was this morning... When they had fought. That's how he'd ended up here anyway... But... He didn't just want to leave without seeing the other man. He had let him stay with him regardless of what he really wanted. He'd given him light to what was really happening, he'd given him company, companionship. John wasn't sure how he would've coped if he'd been left alone. Sherlock helped him get through this... The last thing he can do is thank him, even if Sherlock wouldn't care. And even if he was mad at him, he couldn't just let go of that fact that he was... In love with him... 

"Goddammit," John muttered to himself before turning around and running again. Oh well, it would only take a couple more hours of running. And at least he didn’t get tired.

So it began again, he runs all the way back. A little faster than before, seeing that Sherlock probably began his own travelling. This isn’t something he really feels like doing, but he feels like he’ll regret it if he doesn’t. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Sherlock, he just doesn’t want to see Sherlock _like this_. Brokenhearted, lovesick, pining, angry, sad. There are still so many emotions running through him, both from the events with Sherlock and the realisation of his waking. 

He finds himself wanting to see Sherlock and the other man accepting him, bringing him into his arms and holding him close. Oh, hoping for a lost cause, he thinks as he runs, the tears beginning to prick at his eyes again. No, he’s not going to be crying when he sees him. He’s got to show he’s okay. 

The hours fly past him as he runs. He barely registers it when dawn is suddenly breaking again. Sunrise has always been beautiful here, perhaps more so than in the deserts, but then again, this could be based from that. Wind rushes past his face, whistling in his ears as he breathes it in. He never runs out of breath, never finds the need to stop- he can do anything. As it becomes light, his eyes dart all over the place, searching for the darkness of Sherlock’s hair amongst the grass. His legs abruptly give up on him again, pain making him spasm uncontrollably. From the momentum, he rolls across the ground a couple of times before stilling on his side. 

It’s unbearable. Like a bullet has gone straight through his skull. He can’t feel any of his limbs, just the excruciating pain that circulates through him as if it’s his own blood. Gazing blankly at his arms, he can see the scars of his old wounds beginning to appear, now healed over. Even if he’s fine, it feels worse than anything he’s ever had to endure. Being shot, being hit by that car, the first time he woke up here covered in blood.

And all at once, it comes back to him, being hit by a car. He was in a car accident. Walking down the street, just like Sherlock said. He remembers it like he was reliving it. Headed home alone after a day of work when he was suddenly struck by an uncontrolled, speeding vehicle. His ribs cracked and his head landed on the pavement with a sickening thud before he rolled across it, skin getting torn up by the rough concrete and broken glass. It was agonising. People came rushing out of a shop or restaurant to come help him, the many faces hovering above him blurred and unspecified. He heard the car tyres screeching as it drove away. Hit and run. Then it went black. Opening his eyes, which he hadn’t even realised he’d closed, he notices something else different about him. His body, his arms… They were… Fading. Becoming transparent and not… There. Not… Real. 

“No…” John whispers, sitting up with a pained groan. “No, no, no!"

He thinks about the other man, his eyes, his hair, the way he would have the ghost of a smile on his face whenever John stated the ridiculousness of this place. He thinks about kissing him, how they kissed. How in that moment, John could swear that nothing else existed or mattered. He thinks about how hopelessly and undeniably in love he is with Sherlock Holmes. So he gets up, pushing through the pain, and begins to run even faster. John recognises a tree that he saw just when he was beginning to run away, so he knows he’s close to where they were. He can only hope that Sherlock didn’t decide to run too. 

With difficulty, he rises over another hill and finally, there, on the horizon, he can see Sherlock. It’s strange to think he’s just there. A broad, relieved smile breaks out on his face, and the sight of the younger man gives him a bit of an energy boost, allowing him to speed up as he approached him. 

“Sherlock!” he yells out to him, gaining his attention. The other man turns around in shock. “Sherlock!"

John falls into his arms, overcome with a sudden burn in his legs, as if all that running is finally catching up to him. Exhausted, he buckles, falling into him, Sherlock almost going down with him, but he manages to keep them both upright. Sherlock visibly stiffens, his whole body locking up as he supports John’s weight. He gets him back on to his feet, but doesn’t let go. 

“… John…?"

“Sherlock…” John pants in reply, breath stuttered and rushed as he looks up to his face. God, he’s already tearing up. “I… I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you don’t want me here but… I wanted to… Want to… Before… Before…"

It seemed that Sherlock didn’t even have to blink an eye to know what exactly was happening. John notices something shift in his gaze, he seems sad. Jealous? Envious, maybe. John wraps his arms around him tightly, but Sherlock's body is beginning to feel less real. Tears escape his eyes as he realises this.

“You’re waking up… Congratulations."

“I know… Stop it… That’s not important...” he presses his forehead against his chest again, like that first time they were like this. Sherlock’s arms come to embrace him and he sighs in relief, glad that they weren’t irreparable. His tears wet his shirt. “I want to thank you… Thank you so, so much… Sherlock... I’m… I’m glad that… I’m glad I got to meet you…"

He can feel Sherlock breathing, his chest bobbing up and down under his head. It’s a lot faster than usual, unlike when he’s calm and collected. This has affected him. John’s glad that he had some impact on him.

“… Why…?” Sherlock whispers hoarsely. “Why would you want to thank… Me…?"

“Because,” John tells him softly, genuinely, breath finally caught. “… Because you were there… And you stayed there..."

Sherlock brings a hand up to hold his head in his chest. It's awkward, hesitant, but there, and that’s all that John wants, can ask of him. It’s reassuring, it feels like it means something even when John’s not sure he can feel anything at all. And maybe, John thinks, just maybe, the reason that Sherlock never let anyone in was because he didn’t believe there would be anyone. Maybe he thought that there was no one out there who would find him charming, amazing, brilliant, the way that John sees him. Maybe he kept himself alone because he’s scared of ever having to lose anyone.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says quietly, words spoken into his hair. “I’m sorry that I pushed you away… I… I was confused… Conflicted..."

“It’s okay...“ John murmurs. Because it is, he somewhat knew (or expected) what Sherlock was going to do. He knew his stance on stuff like this. “It’s ok-"

“It’s not…” Sherlock butts in harshly, voice full of resentment. “It’s too late… _I’m_ too late…"

“It’s not… You’re not,” John pulls away from his grip and grabs his head in his hands, forcing Sherlock to look at him. He can see Sherlock’s hair through his hands, his body through his arms. But he ignores it, just for this moment. He pretends he’s not fading away, back to the real world, away from Sherlock. “You’ll wake up soon too, Sherlock. We’ll see each other again… It’s only London we have to conquer, right? We can do it. None of that subconscious crap… Just… Just try hope. For me."

Sherlock’s gaze hardens, drifting to the ground with a bitter grimace. As his head hangs, John frowns, not forcing it back up. The older male takes his hands away with a concerned face. His time here has made an imprint on him, a bad one. That was evident from the day that Sherlock told him that they were in comas. But… He looks reluctant, hopeless, lost. More so than ever. John knows Sherlock’s been here since before he was… But really… How long? He’d never been told.

“… How long have you been here, Sherlock…?"

Sherlock doesn’t reply, only rubs one of his hands down John’s side longingly, watching as he continues to disappear, body see-through like a ghost. They can’t do this. Not now. He has to get Sherlock to talk now, otherwise, there may not be another chance. 

“How long have you been here?!” John demands, a command which Sherlock does not abide to. He tugs him in by his shoulders, gripping tightly to assure himself that Sherlock is still there. 

“You know…" he smiles wistfully to the ground before narrowing his eyes at him, the smile dropping. Tears start falling down his face. There’s no time for Sherlock to be sentimental! "It was an honour to meet you too, John Watson... You were the only one..."

“Stop trying to avoid the question, you asshole! How long?!” John yells at him again, louder, angrier. He can hear the droning beep of the pacemaker, feel the softness of the worn cotton blankets. The younger man quivers in his hold. “Tell me, Sherlock! How long have you been here?!"

His form is becoming more transparent by the second, the tips of his fingers invisible atop Sherlock’s shoulders where John violently shakes him, his arms and shoulders heading in the same direction. He's desperate for answers and there’s just no time for either of them to be hesitating. He tells Sherlock that they don’t have enough time to stop and think, they don’t have enough time to wait. But even so, he says nothing. Sherlock’s getting blurry around the edges, as if he’s part of an impressionist painting. His face is contorted in resentment and pain, torn between keeping him oblivious and telling the truth, and John grips at his shirt a little tighter, tighter, tighter. But all he can feel is the hospital sheets.

“Sherlock...!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock!!!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Sherlock…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John’s vision finally goes black. 

When he opens his eyes, he sees the fluorescent lighting of the sterile room. People are looking down at him with analytical scrutiny, examining him. The tears run down his face and on to the pillow below; he gasps for air as his sobs overtake him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Years_ **

 


	10. Retrouvallie (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Retrouvallie_ (n.)  
>  The joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation; rediscovery.

He stands in the field. The feathery, light strands of grass caress his legs, swallowing them up to his knees and the wind plays his wild, espresso curls, tousling them loosely. In that very moment, his senses seem to be overwhelmed by different things. The cerulean blue stretching above him, the white wisps dragging through it; the smell of the clinical air and the off-sensation of something brushing against jeans. He feels nothing, because it's not real. So he can't. 

His arms are looped around the air, as if holding something, but they are empty, hands clenching at the space between.

_"You’re crying."_

The voice rings in his ears with deafening volume, but there is nothing he can do to stop it. The words resonate in his head, pattering on the back of his skull and drumming into the bone. He feels tears rolling down his cheeks, slow at first, then on going. They continue to fall over and over again, unable to be stopped. His hands fall to his sides, and then come up to tentatively wrap around his torso as if he were cold.

“Ambivalence,” he replies to no one, quiet and reserved. 

He keeps walking.

Alone.

\---

John falls from the realm of unconsciousness and limbo, back into the real world of life. Ever since, he’s never felt the same. Not after everything he went through, everything they went through. His therapist says it’s just ‘trauma’ from the crash, the coma. She says he just needs to stop thinking about it, that way he can move on with his life. But he can’t, because he remembers. Against all odds, against everything he thought would happen, he remembers. He remembers Sherlock with his dark curls, pale eyes and enigmatic smiles. He remembers travelling across endless lands and swimming in crystal clear rivers. The caves, the stars, the impossible aurora; he remembers it all.

Remembering doesn’t make him feel any better. 

Back into the routine of his dull life two years later, he sits alone in the clinic staffroom. He’s on his break, still managing to drift back to the dream world, to Sherlock, to  _them_. Nothing since has happened. He’s looked up Sherlock in the medical databases he could access, only to find no records of him in any clinics or hospitals. The same goes for the situation of actually meeting Sherlock. There have been occurrences of people dreaming while in comas, but no events of someone meeting someone else’s conscience within a comatose state. Even so, he still believes that Sherlock was real, is real. 

There was something hot and sticky against his hand when he first woke up. Hard, smooth, rectangular in shape and gripped tightly in his fist. After his awakening, one of the nurses had gone to get the doctor while the other set off to get him a drink, which gave him a few moments of peace to examine whatever it was being branded into his palm. It had been a slab of opal. Raw and rough, shining all different colours of the rainbow. It had made marks in his hand and was wet with his sweat. Pulling it out of his pocket, where he keeps it, he examines it for the umpteenth time. It’s beautiful, iridescent colours bleeding into each other, captured in stone. He had gotten it smoothed and a cord attached to it, so he could wear it around his neck when need be. It would dangle just above the middle of his chest, a rainbow bar that bisected his sternum. This is what Sherlock had given him that one night. John just knew it. He must've gotten it from the river, the one where he managed to get Sherlock to swim. That's what he must've been doing when he stayed underwater for so long. But...

"Where did you get that from?"

John looks up to see Sarah hovering above him at the small table in the staffroom. She smiles down at him and appears to be gesturing to the stone he has in his hands. A dear friend of his, Sarah was the first one to see him when he woke. She'd told him about what happened and what had happened since. He'd been asleep for three months. His muscles had been moderately weakened from the effects of muscle atrophy, nothing too bad, but it still took a while to recover. After his treatment, she also gave his job back without him having to apply, which he appreciated greatly. They dated once, it hadn't worked out (obviously), but they managed to stay friends. He's sure that their past relationship wasn't what allowed that to happen however. He likes to think that his reemployment wasn't determined by prior emotions (that he felt no more).

“Did I ever ask you? One day, we just found it in your fist,” Sarah continues, heading to the counter. “A nurse found it like, two months in. You held on to it until you woke up. The doctors tried to take it off you, but you wouldn't let it go no matter how hard they tried prying it off you. I think they tried taking it off you but your pulse spiked, so they let you keep it. It helped with keeping you calm, and I guess in a way, it helped your arm muscles from atrophying as much."

It's true. His left hand seemed stronger than his right after he'd woken up, even if it was his weaker side initially from the shoulder wound. John had never realised, he suddenly thinks.

"Do you want some more tea?" Sarah's voice slips into his thoughts. 

John blinks curiously down at it. How though? If Sherlock was in a coma, it couldn't have been him but... He did, in the weird coma-place, Sherlock gave him the stone. Sarah was still occupied by filling the jug when he looks at her. Does she know who this is from then?

"Ah, yes please, tea would be lovely," John shakes himself from his own mind. "Um... Did you know who exactly gave this to me...?"

"Wouldn't have a clue, sorry," Sarah replies sheepishly. "All the visitors you ever had were asked, none of them said they gave it to you. It's almost as if it just appeared one day."

John frowns. "Huh..."

"It was checked and stuff, the doctors had it removed and it was tested by forensics before they gave it back to you," Sarah elaborates, mucking about the kettle. "I'm not entirely sure how they managed to get it back to you though, a man did come in and have a few words with the police though." 

"Huh?"

"I don't know, some man," Sarah scrunches her face up as she comes to the table, two mugs in hand. "Here you go... Brown hair, suit, tall... Don't remember much, I only saw him in passing."

"Like a police officer?" John asks, hoping he doesn't sound too eager. 

“Don't know whether he was police," Sarah hums thoughtfully into her mug. "He was negotiating with them, so I don't think so... I might be wrong though. Think you know him?"

Who Sarah was describing sounded so much like Sherlock, but with such broad wording, it could be anyone.  Lots of people look like that... It was practically a description of your everyday, average business man. Well, considering he doesn't know if Sherlock is even real, it's probably best for him to let it slide. It definitely wasn't Sherlock, he was in a coma with him, should he have been real. It must've been just a coincidence. Maybe his mind had made up Sherlock, and someone giving him something had added to the situations in his head. Could've been a coping mechanism, make it seem like someone else knew what he was feeling.

"Hmm..." John takes a gulp of his tea. "Doesn't sound like anyone I know… Well, everyone is tall for me…"

“Maybe his hair had a slight ginger tinge to it, I don’t quite remember."

“Sadly, that doesn’t really help…"

"That's strange," Sarah muses to herself, leaning back in her chair. "I wonder who it was..."

"Same..." John sighs sadly, no closer to figuring out anything. He finishes his tea quickly, even if it scalds his tongue. "My break is over soon. I should get back to my room..."

"Okay," Sarah nods in understanding as he stands and heads to the locker rooms. "I'll see you later then?"

"Tomorrow, probably."

"See you then."

So he carries on with his day, treating patients, making diagnostics and prescribing medicine where needed. He does a couple of small procedures and gets noted of some meetings and appointments by the secretary. Just like always. He guesses there’s something to be liked about the routine of it. At least he knows to not get his hopes up for anything. As the time goes on, he becomes closer to thinking that all Sherlock is, is a dream. He loses a little hope every moment. 

By the end of the day, he’s exhausted, wanting to just go home and sleep and wake up to the next day to start again. That’s all he ever seems to do anymore, start over, doing the same every single damn day. The only real differences in his life are the later shifts when he covers for someone. But he puts on a smile for the clinic, waving to everyone with a glib exterior as he leaves. Outside the doors, he fades into nothing very easily. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll get hit by a car again, fall back to where he could be with Sherlock. God, isn't that depressing to think about. There’s hardly anyone walking anymore, restaurant goers, clubbers, sure… But the streets are nowhere as crowded as they are in the middle of the day.

The night cloaks the city in darkness, the street lights shining dim, yellowness on the wet pavements. He sighs as he walks along the footpaths, merging in with the people already there. A fun, social vibe radiates off the places he walks past, people chatting animatedly, laughing, happy. Enjoying the good weather while it lasts, savouring the moments where the rain isn’t everywhere. He should probably get out more, make some friends or something like that. But he doesn't think he’d be able to uphold them long enough for them to last. While his somewhat gloomy aura doesn't dampen the upbeat spirits around him, they don't seem to have an effect on him either.

Down the street, he hears high pitched screams and yelling before a gunshot rings through the night, and immediately he's running towards it. So much for that upbeat vibe. Cautiously, he rounds the corner, wishing desperately that he had his gun tucked into his jacket. It appears the gunman has run away when John reaches a small number of people, some on the ground. Most of them must've run away when they'd heard shooting. There's red splattered over all surfaces. He pushes through to find a man on the ground with a bullet hole through his gut. He's only partially conscious, a hand splayed over his stomach where he's trying to stop the flow of red leaving his body. His pressure is weak and his head lolls around on the pavement where his blood pools. There's a lady at his side, crying her eyes out while tearing at his shirt, holding his other hand and trying to help the wound. A wife maybe.

"Excuse me, I'm a doctor," he tells them, kneeling on the ground. The woman lets him take over. His pants are getting ruined, and he's tired and just wants to get home but he can't leave this guy die here. It's not in his nature, and even if it wasn't, he was in the military. He served for Queen and country, and the people of it, old habits die hard. Talking to the woman, he tries to calm her down while simultaneously ripping this man's shirt off to apply a better pressure to the wound with it. The paramedics come and push him out of the way, he doesn't have long, John tells them. 

And that's how he ends up becoming a witness for a homicide case, sitting in the back of an ambulance with an orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Whenever he tries to give it back, it's just returned, dropped over him again, so he just gave up. Then the police arrive and John realises that he's not going to be getting out of here any time soon. He should text Sarah and tell him what happened. There's a blue and red glow lighting up the night sky and the yellow street lamp haze. It would almost be soothing, were he not sitting in the back of an ambulance losing sleep.

Someone's approaching him. John looks up wearily, not really in the mood to talk but knowing he's going to have to. To be honest, he needs to clean up, all his clothes are stained with red somehow. It's a man adorning a black trench coat, blue dress shirt and dark pants who comes to stand in front of him. His silver hair reflects the colours around them, hands shoved hastily in his pockets. Rubber is visible at his wrists, he's got gloves on. He isn't wearing a uniform, so he's not a paramedic... Police maybe?

"Hey, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man introduced himself politely. Police then. "We're going to need a statement from you, if you don't mind."

"John Watson. I'll tell you everything I know," John replies simply, and the man brings out a notebook and pen. Well, best get this over and done with, right? "Alright, I was a couple of blocks away when I heard screaming and gun shot. I'm a doctor, so I immediately ran to the scene and found that the gunner had left. I just helped out with the wounded..." He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "I can't tell you much more than that... I'm sorry..."

"Hm. Well, thanks anyway. Anything- Sorry," Lestrade is interrupted by a loud, booming voice that comes from across the other side of the taped area. It sounds angered and petulant, and the DI sighs exasperatedly at it, turning around slowly before walking away. "It's your first day back, mate. Do not tell me you've managed to piss off my team already."

"Maybe if your team had even a fraction more collective thinking capacity than of a singular prokaryote, I would be able to tolerate them!" The other voice John identifies as male, clearly frustrated. The figure seems to be walking in from the dark (the only patch of darkness, so it seems), so John can't see him. He just drops his head. This doesn't involve him, he doesn't have to pay attention. They're not close to him, but John can still eavesdrop on they're conversation. Albeit, unintentionally. "Anyway, I've solved the case. You're lucky Anderson escaped unscathed today. I deleted how annoying his existence was from my mind. How have you not fired him, by the way?"

"You solved it?!" Lestrade exclaims, unbelieving of his words. "Jeez, you've been off for six years, you'd think you'd be a bit slower."

John pulls out his opal, wrapping the leather cord around his fingers until the rock rests against his knuckles. It reflects the colours of the lights, while its own colours are emphasised by them. It's his only form of entertainment, he twirls the cord and runs the stone over his hands, feeling the cold flat piece. When will he be able to leave? There seem to be no paramedics around him... But he can't really just leave… John loops the stone around his neck, feeling somewhat sentimental. Hey, he must’ve been in an ambulance when the car crash happened, right? That was when he met Sherlock. Technically… Right?

"Five and nine months, don't exaggerate. A year and a half of that was simply recuperation from muscle atrophy, I'll have you know," the other man approaches the ambulance, John sees the two pairs of shoes standing in front of him, well, like five metres away but still. "This case was about a three at the most anyway. What are you doing? Collecting those useless statements again? I see you've gained a notebook." 

"Yeah. Nothing to worry about now, I suppose. If you have this sorted, you want to tell me?"

"..."

"... Uh..."

"... Sure... Just give me a moment..."

"Are you alright? Where are you off to? Should I be worried and calling your brother?" 

“Stop with the incessant questioning. Mycroft has no need to be informed."

"… Are you sure..."

"Don't worry, Lestrade. While you're not busy, how about you deal to the mess your team created over there with the evidence?" 

“I’m sure that can wait if-"

“Are you sure…? Tampering with the evidence, remember. Your boss wouldn’t like that. And it’s not even me this time, aren’t you proud?"

"... Fine, meet me at my car in ten."

"Hmph."

John's leaning against the side of the ambulance now. His mind wavers, a thick, syrupy haze blurring his vision into some sort of some glowing Van Gogh painting. 'Fireflies’ he thinks as the balls of light swim around his eyes, ‘they look like fireflies’. The blanket is actually quite warm, protecting him from the cold, and the darkness behind his eyes is very welcoming at the moment. He can't even be bothered that he's covered in drying blood, despite how disgusting it is. The paramedics can wake him when he can leave, he thinks, he's too exhausted and-

"... Evening..." 

John's eyes flutter open slowly. Partially out of response, partially out of curiosity, his vision is blurred and takes a few moments to clear and adjust to the brightness of the lights silhouetting the figure in front of him. God, he must be dreaming - because that voice. That voice sounds so much like Sherlock, it makes John's heart ache. It’s deep and rough and smooth at the same time, husky like walking on gravel and flowing like classical music on the page and in the air. He can almost remember the tone of his voice flowing through his ears. Maybe he's sleeping. If he looks too closely, there will be nothing there. John stares into the shape walking towards him. 

Cold breath escapes his lips as he exhales, white wisps leaving his mouth as he breathes. His long, black coat goes beyond his knees, collar pulled up and scarf wrapped up to his mouth. Dark curls are highlighted by splotches of red and blue and yellow from the lights everywhere, and his icy blue eyes stare towards him. John inhales sharply, taking in the man he met two years ago. God, he’s even skinnier than before, lean frame hidden under the layers of clothing he’s wearing. His hair is as wild as ever, eyes sharp and glittering and _alive_. The cold air swirls around them, seeping into the backs of their coats. But the thing is, John can feel it. It’s real, it’s there. They’re there. It’s really them in the middle of an crime scene in the night. The bite of the chill is on his cheeks and it tastes like smoke, it tastes like London. It tastes real.

"... Sherlock..?" John breathes out in wonder, half scared that he's just a figment of his imagination. "... Sherlock...?"

"Hello," Sherlock Holmes stands in front of him, looking down at his feet awkwardly. He tilts his head up and smiles slightly, and something inside John flutters. "John Watson..." 

"... I..." John can do nothing but gape at him, soaking in his appearance, trying to memorise every line and dimple just in case he fades from his vision. "Sherlock... I..."

"I know," the other man replies.

And suddenly there’s silence. There are noises going on all around them, but all John can focus on is Sherlock’s face and that unbelieving glint in his eyes that changes colours with the flashing police sirens that dart around the pale blue like lights in a nightclub. John’s keeping his own eyes open, wide with surprised and unblinking just in case Sherlock is just a dream, just in case it’s a trick of the light. He stares, unabashedly, simply in awe of the man standing in front of him. He’s not sleeping, he can’t be. Sherlock looks too real. Hell, he’s not even tired anymore. Despite that, he tightens the blanket around himself, almost as if he’s insecure and doesn’t want to be seen, or is going to sleep. He has a feeling it isn’t because he’s cold. Even if he is, but that’s not really the point. 

Then John is bundled up in this unexpectedly strong hold, dragged from the ambulance and into strong arms that keep him suspended in the air and pressed into a chest with a beating heart that sounds so powerful and alive and real. Sherlock's form heaves as he chokes into John's shoulder like someone's just died and John feels tears falling down his cheeks while little sobs of happiness escape his gritted teeth. He grips tightly to Sherlock, partially because he doesn't want to fall and partially just to make sure he's real. Sherlock spins them round and round in circles until John can’t see anything but a blur, and they’re both laughing deliriously by the end of it.

"T-That man..." John stammers as Sherlock let him down on to the ground, but made no action to remove his arms from around him. "He... He said six years..."

"Four years, nine months," Sherlock corrects as he presses himself against John, like he's trying to fuse with him. "I woke up four months after you." 

"I tried finding you."

"My brother prevented my records from being found," Sherlock huffed into his hair. "He does that, irritatingly. I tried finding you too, but it was difficult to track you down whilst recovering from years of atrophy."

"Four years... Almost five," John breathes in disbelief. "You never told me how long."

"What was the point?" Sherlock hums dismissively, swaying them side to side slightly. "I had resigned to the fact that I was going to be there forever. When you left I didn't want to remind myself of how long it had been. I thought it had been longer than ten years though. Couldn't really gauge the time in my own head." 

"What was it like looking in the mirror again?" John asks curiously, chuckling slightly. "After five years of not seeing yourself."

"Interesting, forgot what I looked like for a while. Didn't really care, but I have to say showering and my own clothes are rather comforting," Sherlock draws back from the embrace before furrowing his brow. "Also the advancement of tech... Where did you get that...?"

John frowns too, looking down. Oh. He holds up the opal on the leather cord he looped around his neck. "It was in my hand when I woke up... I don't really know..."

Sherlock talks at the paramedics for a moment before John is whisked away to a nearby building, where they lean against the wall and get their words together. The glow of the crime scene is just in the peripheral of John’s vision, a muggy mix of blue and red faded in the edges of his sight. Sherlock’s eyes glow with it and John feels like they’re in their own little bubble for a moment.

"... I gave you that," Sherlock continues staring at it with wide eyes. "It was from the river, the one which you convinced me to jump into... In the rocks-"

"I know," John laughs in disbelief while Sherlock busies himself by wiping John’s tears with a gloved thumb. "When I woke up, it was in my hand. The nurses said it appeared two months into my coma."

"It was in my hand for a couple of days, no one knew where it came from but… It disappeared from my hand in the fourth month of the fifth year…” Sherlock tells him slowly, analysing the chunk of stone curiously. “That’s… Did someone give it to you?"

“No. Apparently it just appeared one day. What do you think happened?"

“… Hm…” Sherlock narrows his eyes at it before averting his gaze to John’s eyes, where it softened. He cautiously began leaning in. “I hope you don’t mind… But I have something else I’ve been wanting to do for a while..."

“Ah… ?” John grins as he raises himself up on his toes so their noses touch. Sherlock smiles back at him, something unabashed and much slyer than anything he’d given him back in their comas. “No… I’m sure the mystery of the moving opal can wait."

“Hmm…” Sherlock hums lowly as their fingers intertwine and their lips finally press together lightly.

It’s the most innocent kiss that John has ever been part of, it’s also the most pleasurable kiss he’s ever had the good fortune of being a part of. So much better than what they experienced in their minds, so much more real and electrifying. Their hands are laced between them, fingers tight but arms loose and dangling at their hips. Sherlock nuzzles against his face gently, their noses bumping lightly as their lips softly press together and move lazily in time. The tentative delicacy of it makes John’s heart hammer violently against his ribcage, his worries and thoughts melt into blissful nothingness and he feels Sherlock starting to grin against his lips before John begins to giggle. He’s high on adrenaline, happiness and Sherlock, and John can’t help but feel like a teenager again. Like it’s his very first kiss and he just discovered something exhilarating and secret, the near painful tingling of his heart soaring in his chest while his fingertips and toes are trying to catch up with the sensation of it all. Fireworks rocket off everywhere in his body, he wouldn’t be surprised if sparks were pouring from his chest in that moment. It's far from perfect; their teeth clack together as they grin and their noses smash together, John's up on his tiptoes while Sherlock is hunched over awkwardly but they just want more. John doesn’t think there’s been a time where he’s felt so happy, so content, so ‘ _yes, this is where I’m meant to be_ ’ in his life, and he knows with alarming certainty that he is ready to dedicate his life to a man he’s only ever met in his dreams but felt like he’s known for lifetimes. He squeezes Sherlock’s much larger hands with his own

If he ever believed in such a fickle thing, John might just say he thinks he’s met his soulmate. 

“Uh…"

John pulls away first, abrupt and shocked at the interruption. He ducks his head, suddenly finding the ground and all its glory very interesting. God, he’s still covered in semi dried blood and the blanket from the ambulance. There have been better times for moments like these, but John decides that with Sherlock, this seems fairly fitting. Sherlock straightens up in front of him, a professional demeanour falling over him as if he weren’t just kissing John into a sappy puddle of happiness. The brown-haired male turns towards the Detective with their hands still together, he even gives John’s fingers a light tug of encouragement.

“Sherlock… Mind to explain what’s going on here…?” He asks uncertainly. “I don’t have to place a restraining order on you, do I? I’m not sure of how I would explain that to Mycroft…"

“…” Sherlock glances down at John with a sheepish expression. "… No…?"

“No,” John mumbles in agreement.

“Sherlock-"

“Lestrade, this is John Watson,” Sherlock cocks his head towards him, their hands still laced together. “He’s… I’m…” The taller male finds himself struggling to describe what they are, and John reasons that, put in the same situation, he wouldn’t know how to introduce Sherlock to anyone at this point either. "We’re… Well… It’s… Never mind, it’s irrelevant at the moment. What do you want?"

“Uh, paperwork for the case has to be done, and you’re the one who has to do it,” Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, John notices his gloves are gone. “I can... I’ll just bring it around to your place tomorrow… I guess."

“Yes,” Sherlock nods slowly, swaying slightly. “I think that would be a fine course of action… Am I done here?"

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Lestrade replies with a cough. “Yeah, we can handle it from here. Thanks, Sherlock… Nice to meet you, John."

“You too,” John stammers weakly at the Detective Inspector as he walks away. Sherlock hums to himself thoughtfully.

“… Would you like to come to mine now…?” Sherlock struggles with his words as he looks down at John with an open expression. “To talk…? I mean… We have a lot of catching up to do."

John looks up at him, and the expression which he gives must be misinterpreted as incredulousness or ridiculousness, anything that isn’t surprise or amazement or awe, all of which, John’s feeling in the moment. 

“Of course, you can just go back to your flat and we can meet up tomorrow or-"

It’s the most ridiculous thing that he’s ever heard, simply because of everything, so John bursts out laughing. The circumstance, the location, the way he’s tired out of his mind and covered in blood and the way Sherlock is grinning in a way that should be illegal. He wraps his arms around the tall detective tightly, squeezing just in case he disappears or runs away again before pulling away.

“Yeah,” John smiles up at him. “I’d like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finally done!!! Yeah, sorry, I disappeared for like five years. Got really busy with exams and then I just lost motivation for a while, which sucked because I had, and still have so many ideas in my head that I want to write about but not enough time and my life is just kind of getting more busy from here on in... Ahhhhh.
> 
> Basically, I don't really know whether I'll be updating regularly anymore, just when the inspiration spikes and when I have the time.
> 
> HOWEVER, I do have a heap of chapters for bits here and there which I'm thinking of posting. So maybe that will help get the motivation up?
> 
> Thanks so much for reading :)


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